When His Mother Trusted Me (with Her Son)
by clemonlime
Summary: When his mother trusted me with her son, she was passing the torch. The only one who could help him was me... (Finished)
1. Chapter 1

When his mother trusted me with her son, I could hear the pain in her voice. I could feel his depression pushing down on her shoulders, a weight she'd never told him about because if she did, he'd blame himself and lock his heart up with a titanium key. He knew his mother was sick, she did too, but even though he was gifted at reading other people's emotions and intentions, he wasn't very good at hiding his own.

When his mother trusted me with her son, I was already feeling the weight. He'd told me he loved me before. Well, indirectly, many times, but it was the best he could do. My shoulders were slumping more and more with the lack of honesty in his texts. I'd turned him down because I didn't think of him like that, I felt nothing for him like that. He was my coworker, my friend. He was blaming himself for unspeakable things, and I only knew this because his mother told me what she could remember. He would smile and laugh at my jokes, and sometimes he'd cry in his little corner of the jet, but he'd tuck his face into a book and pretend like he was reading. I wouldn't say anything. If I did, he'd take it as pity. I couldn't let him think that.

When his mother trusted me with her son, she was passing the torch. The only one who could help him was me. I knew that. He was growing tired of thinking people cared. It was fresh after he was kidnapped by Tobias. On one of our cases, he'd told me that he couldn't get the image of the team hovering over him out of his head. That was when I knew it was getting serious. He was fixating on Maeve at one point, but as soon as she was gone, it was back to me. I was a relatively new friend of his—the transition from coworker to friend was a swift one. I was a clean slate, as it were. He was grasping onto me without letting me know. That's what his mother told me, anyway. He was giving up, but if there was one person that didn't know everything about him, it was me. At least, that's what he thought.

When his mother told me that he liked me, I already knew, he'd told me. He was obvious with it, even if he didn't know he was. As time went on, though, the indirect acts of discomfort and frustration were growing, his headaches were more frequent, and his eyes were becoming darker and darker. I wanted to say something about it. I didn't, though. I didn't feel anything for him.

When his mother told me he'd tried to jump from the bridge, I was stunned. I knew which bridge it was. His mother assured me that he was fine, but she couldn't have known. All of her information was being filtered through the doctors at the hospital. He didn't want me to know, and he certainly didn't want me to be visiting his mother. There were lots of things he didn't want me to know that I did, all because of his mother. He was good at acting, but he wasn't good at hiding when his fists would clench under the table when people would doubt him, or when my shoulder bumped his or when I'd tell him to breathe. Sometimes he'd move away from my touch. I would never say anything.

When his mother told me to visit him, I said yes because I missed him. I found him by the shed he'd been kept in with Tobias. There were broken vials of various doses of Dilaudid spread around him like a safety circle. I checked the crooks of his elbows, but there weren't any new needle pricks. He told me to leave with all the conviction of a wilting dandelion and I knew I had to keep him in my sight at all times.

When his mother trusted me with her son, it took me several years to reach him. Now that I've got him, the real story can begin.


	2. Chapter 2

"You can put your stuff anywhere."

Spencer hovered in the doorway, the straps of his messenger bags crisscrossing across his chest like ammo packs for whatever battles we were going to face together. He looked around my apartment with wide eyes, "It's a lot different than I thought it would be."

"What do you mean?" I looked over my shoulder as he stepped inside and placed his bags into my office chair by the door.

"I... may have irrationally imagined a lot more treadmills and ellipticals. There's a startling lack of exercise equipment." He messed with the tassels of a lamp curiously, "It's not Morgan enough for me."

"Well, I'm sorry that you thought I lived in a gym, Reid. Did you want a tour or-" I watched as he cringed and quickly shut my trap, "...or you could just ask where things are as you need them."

"Thanks," he said quietly, his voice crackling like he hadn't had water in a few months. Oh. That's what I forgot.

"Can I get you anything?" I tried to tap into my mother's hostess skills, "Water?"

"Um... yeah, actually. That—yeah, that'd be great," Spencer cleared his throat as if to get the words out as he settled into a sitting position. "Thank you for letting me stay here."

"It wasn't even a decision. It's nice to have company around here." I smiled at him and half-heartedly jogged around the corner to grab a glass. "Are you super thirsty, kid?"

"I don't know," he answered loudly so that I could hear him. It was an interesting sound to hear, him speaking loudly. His self-consciousness would usually get in the way of any confident speech. "What does super thirst entail?"

At work, I'd probably make a joke. If not for Spencer, for Garcia to laugh at. That was kind of my style, anyways. What Spencer would have expected from me. However, I didn't want the timid and uncomfortable man in my living room to think he wasn't welcome just because I made a joke he didn't understand. That was the opposite of my intention.

From what his mother told me last weekend when I pitched the whole idea of roommatehood to her, he wasn't very familiar with the concept of sleepovers, much less a semi-permanent move into a colleague's living space. She said to ease in, whatever that meant. I figured I would start out with a diluted version of me, and as he got comfortable, so would I.

It sounded so clinical when I thought of it like that. But, then again, Spencer was always an objective, clinical guy. That was definitely a doctor trait about him.

"Morgan?" He broke me out of my head with a reluctant call,

"Oh! Right, sorry." I quickly fixed a less-super amount of water and speed walked back to him, "I spaced for a sec."

"Are you okay?" Spencer stood from where he sat stiffly on my couch and shoved his hands into his rough corduroy pockets. "You're being... well, don't take this the wrong way, I apologize if I'm overstepping... but, you're being very weird."

I smiled at him, "You're fine, kid. But, yeah, I suppose I am being weird. Just not used to having company over. Usually it's just my mom."

"Me too," Spencer's voice cracked the way it always did when he found a common factor between him and a person he'd never otherwise relate to. It had happened earlier in the week when Hotch had expressed interest in the poetic stylings of E. E. Cummings. "How often does your mom come over?"

"Usually just holidays, or when I'm out of town for long periods of time," I hand him the glass of water.

"She comes over when you're out of town?" He asked, a questioning look on his face.

"To check on Clooney, yes." I sat down in my recliner chair and situated myself into my sitting-for-long-periods-of-time position. It took a few moments for me to feel a profiler's eyes boring holes in between my eyebrows. I looked up at him, "What?"

"Clooney?"

"Oh, my, uh. My dog." I pointed at the dog bed beside my chair.

"There's a, uh. A dog?" His hand flew up to grab nervously at the nape of his neck, "How hasn't it started barking at me already?"

"The Reid Effect can't take place if the dog is in a kennel. Don't worry, I figured you should get used to it here first before I add another wild, unpredictable variable into the mix." I watched as he glanced around the room, standing awkwardly. "You can sit down, y'know."

"Yeah, um... sorry, yeah." He fell back into the couch and slipped his shoes off, placing them on the ground parallel to the arm of the couch.

It was obvious that the chances of Spencer getting used to a new living space in one night were dropping with every apology he muttered. It was time to break out Plan B. I gave him the remote. "I bought the first season of Battlestar Galactica on Blu-ray. Knock yourself out."

The dark clouds that hid behind his eyes were lifting, slowly but surely. "I thought you didn't..."

"You don't know me as much as you think you do, kid."

His shoulders finally relaxed as he brought his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them, pressing play.


	3. Chapter 3

At some point in the night, I wasn't sure when, the sleepiness overtook me. I couldn't tell if it was the tea I made, the hum of the signal-less television, or the sound of old book pages together that really did me in.

Spencer was on the floor. I wasn't sure when he got there, but he had obviously made a few trips to my bookcase and back because he was surrounded by books. His thin fingers were tracing the sides of the page as he read, flying through the words as he played with spines mindlessly. I couldn't help but notice that a lot of things had changed since I had dozed off.

He was wearing matching pink-and-purple flannel pajamas as compared to the rough, neutral toned corduroys he had previously been wearing. His contacts were replaced by large, thick glasses that hung off his nose, most likely heavy. His hair was messed up, not as kempt as earlier (which was saying a big, as he hardly ever brushed his hair back anymore), sort of like a lion. He was a strange sight, but a refreshing one. I hadn't seen him so relaxed and peaceful in a good while.

I also didn't recall a time where I put the blanket on myself.

As I slowly woke up from my little nap, I realized that I was really, really exhausted. Not only was the cleaning for Spencer to come over fatigue-inducing, the past week had been full of cases that required a lot of, as Garcia put it, eye bleach.

"Hey..." I mumbled, knocking Spencer from his reading head space.

"Hi," he gave a nervous smile and tucked his hair behind his ear. "You didn't sleep for long. I gave you a blanket, hope you don't mind. I took it from what I believed was the guest room."

"The one with the green walls?"

"Yes? They're more of a turquoise, actually-" I raised my eyebrows, and he stopped. "Yeah. Green."

"Well, you'd better get these back into your room, kid," I stood, folding the blanket into a square and setting it on the in-table. "I'm going to turn in. Do you need any directions around the apartment before I go?"

"Um..." Reid looked up at me, his eyes seeming even larger than they already were behind the big glasses resting on his nose. "You're... going to sleep already?"

"Kid, I'm sure you're used to late nights reading your books, and if I wasn't so wiped out, I'd stay up with you," I gestured to the piles of books around him, "But you seem pretty preoccupied."

"Uh... okay, I'll just..." He pushed his glasses up with his thumbs, unsure of what to say next. The veil of comfort that he'd been hiding under was yanked away viciously and he was left on the floor in his safety circle once again. "I'll see you when you get up."

"Woah, woah. Pretty Boy, what's that I hear in your voice?" I walked over, masking a yawn behind my hand as I sat beside him in his circle. He shyed away from me, unfolding his legs from each other.

"I... I can't really sleep in places that are foreign to me," he mumbled, his fingers stumbling over themselves as he tried to fidget his way out of the spotlight. "I get this prevalent sleep apnea when I try to sleep in new places and I start to shut down and I-"

"Everyone has trouble sleeping in new places, kid." I always had a habit of placing my hand on people's shoulder, arm, or head when I was trying to comfort them. My friends and the people I associated myself with were often extroverted, touchy people. Like me, and especially like Garcia. However, I knew Spencer, and he was definitely the anomaly in my friend group. Instead, I just gave him the space he always needed when he was in a vulnerable space.

"I know," he said, his voice raspy with a familiar exhaustion. "I just can't sleep very well when there's a possibility I might get up and my mind'll be scrambled and... I forget where I am."

Oh.

"Pretty Boy, you're worried about some kind of a schizophrenic break?"

Spencer nodded and tugged at the worn edges of his pant legs, "They can often be triggered by changes in routine, like alternate eating patterns, self-care regimens-"

"And sleeping patterns," I finished for him. Of course, how could I have overlooked it?

He looked up at me through his eyelashes, a deep sadness not-so hidden under the thick rims of his glasses. "Yeah."

"So..." My eyebrows furrowed as I thought for a moment, "What can I do to make this more like home?"

"Morgan-"

"We can spend the night at your house sometimes, if you want. And I can get the diffusers with the sticks that smell like libraries if that would make you feel at home," I reached over and grabbed the blanket and placed it in his lap. "I'm here to make you comfortable, kid. Whatever you need."

Spencer's arms wrapped around the blanket, holding it to his chest. He sat in silence, breathing through his nose for a few moments until he finally stood. He waited for me to stand as well before speaking.

"Can I sleep in your room tonight?"


	4. Chapter 4

Something I didn't expect when I woke up was Spencer to be curled up on his side of the bed, making himself as small as possible. His pajama pants had ridden up in his sleep, stuck around his knees, and he'd kicked the blankets off of himself at some point in the night as they pooled around his ankles

I took a few moments to get my bearings; put on a shirt, brush my teeth (etc.) before moving to wake the roly-poly in my bed. I tried to come up with some way to get him up comfortably and without too much trauma for the both of us. He didn't like touching, especially not from me. I must admit, it was pretty daunting hosting someone that was so openly in like with me, but if anything with this knowledge, I wouldn't use it against him.

"Reid." I mumbled at first, but then realized it wouldn't do any good to be quiet while waking someone up. "Kid. Rise and shine."

"Mmmmmmmmmmhi," he hummed and stretched his arms straight out, hitting my shoulders. He didn't seem to mind, which gave me an air of hope to the rest of his stay. "G'morning."

"Well rested?"

"Eventually," he let his eyes flutter open and he was visibly surprised when I was the first thing he saw. "Hi."

"Hello," I gave a gentle wave before standing and heading over to my in table. "I'll check my phone, see what kind of case we have today."

"If it has anything to do with kids and murder," Spencer warned, his voice raspy with sleep and a hint of contempt, "I'm not getting out of this bed."

I grabbed my phone from the stand and flipped it open, reading three missed calls from Hotch. I walked over to the window, flipping open the curtains. No apocalypse was evident. Three missed calls could mean anything. There was a case that required them to have been in the jet a few hours ago, Hotch's car exploded, Garcia accidentally hacked into the nuclear base and set missles to block up the bullpen. Anything.

I sighed and pressed the call button, ready for the worst.

"Morgan, didn't you get my voicemails?" Hotch's tired voice came in clear, "I'm sick, as is the majority of the BAU. The only people that didn't call in sick was you, Garcia, and Reid."

I squinted at the receiver for a moment, "Isn't that impossible?"

"I wouldn't know. Ask Reid, I'm sure he has a statistic or fun fact for you," Hotch coughed loudly and groaned, "It should go without saying that I would discourage you from action today, because it's a very high possibility that you may feel the symptoms later today."

"I don't get sick, sir. But whatever floats your boat," I glanced over to where Spencer had flipped himself over and was looking at me expectantly, "Is Jack okay?"

"So far, yes. But I need to rest as soon as possible, so I will get back to you later today."

"Roger that." I hung up the phone and jumped back onto the bed, evoking somewhat of a tired squeak from Reid. "Everyone at the BAU is sick except for you, Garcia, and I. Any way that could be possible?"

"Garcia isn't in the field..." Spencer's eyebrows went up and down as he thought, "You and I were the only ones that didn't go on the Celebratory Outing that JJ suggested? Did you get any indication that Hotch was exhausted and perhaps had vomited in the past hour."

"He sounded wrecked," I offered.

"Most likely food poisoning, which leads me to wonder a common food that they ate-"

"Reid, we're off the job," I shook my head, amazed by this man's obsession with finding the culprit to every petty thing that emerged in his life. "Relax. There's no work today."

Spencer frowned and repeated, mostly to himself, the last few words. "No work today?"

"Don't be so upset about it, kid. I can rent a Star Trek DVD and you can explain what little errors you know of?"

Spencer's face contorted into one of confused amusement, "You would encourage that kind of activity? In your own home?"

"Mi casa es su casa."

"Es tu cama mi cama?" He gestured to the bed lazily, "Because the only thing I want to do is sleep more."

I nodded, but couldn't stop a stray smile breaking through, "So you're comfortable here?"

"Not to evade your personal space," Spencer began to pull his pant legs back to where they were supposed to be, "but, in all truth, anywhere you are is home, in a sense."

I could feel my expression become one of amazement. Amazement that he misinterpreted.

"I-I mean, we work together so much and we've been roommates in lots of hotels across the country, and I can't imagine that I'd be able to sleep in anyone else's house with no problems like I did last night." Spencer's cheeks became a bright pink as he spoke, covering his face with his tiny hands, "This is embarrassing."

"Not embarrassing, Reid. It's pretty awesome," I pulled the comforter over his legs, watching as he settled back into a fetal position, "Here I was, thinking it'd take years for you to get comfortable here, and it happened in a day."

Spencer smiled shyly and buried half of his face into the pillow, "You mean..."

"I'm relieved."

"….I'll be here for years?" He finished his sentence at the same time.

"Yeah, kid, if you really want to. My door's always open, figuratively speaking."

Spencer nodded slowly, taking in the information with only a profiler's level of focus. "I think I do want to stay for awhile."


	5. Chapter 5

The week that followed wasn't my ideal representation of the days following Spencer's admittance that he wanted to stay at my apartment. We were on the jet, then we were at a new place, then we were at a crime scene, soon followed by a stay in respective hotel rooms. Of course, there was the occasion that there wouldn't be enough bedrooms, and Spencer would stay with me then. But it wasn't the same. I couldn't make him feel comfortable in a sleeping place when we'd be changing our places again the next day. He was hurting again, and there wasn't a thing I could do about it.

He was sitting at one of the community sit-and-chat places in the bustling lobby of the hotel on one of the couches whose patterns matched the drapes in every room. His legs were spread wide as he hunched over, his elbows resting on his knees and only one book propped up beside him. He had on one of his emergency shirts from his go bag, a gray-ish blue tee shirt with a Vulcan salute in the middle of his chest. Although he looked amazing as always, it just felt wrong to see a Dr. Spencer Reid without the aura of college professor about him.

"Hey," I sat next to him, watching as he pressed his fingertips into his eyes as if he could block out the headaches and lack of sleep from the outside.

"Hey," he responded with all the power of a genius starved of sleep and energy. He removed his hands and looked at me just long enough so that I could notice how dark the skin under his eyes had gotten. "Is there a coffee machine?"

"Way ahead of you..." I slid a cup of coffee to him. "It's better than the kind they have at the BAU. I know that's not saying much..."

"No, it's..." He grimaced and pressed the warm coffee to his temple, "It was sweet. Thank you, Morgan."

I squinted at him for a moment. I waited for him to comment on the fact that he hadn't said the word "sweet" to describe me ever, and I definitely waited for him to steer the conversation somewhere that I could make him laugh or feel better or something.

He shook his head slowly, groaning in a way I hadn't heard before. He couldn't have slept a wink since the case in Idaho with the children and the murders and the psychological damage. And that was days ago, more than 70 hours.

Spencer whined, "I can't think, everything is so loud. I can hear my own heartbeat through my feet and I can kinda hear yours too. I can't profile if I can't even put a shirt on correctly. I just feel so... useless."

The entire world felt like it stopped turning except for us. My heart shattered into a million pieces and I was fortunate that he was rubbing his eyes at that very moment because he would have seen the emotions on my face. I took a few deep breaths to try and chase away the lump in my throat, because if I spoke while it was there, he'd look up and see me like this and that wasn't what I wanted.

I wished there was time for me to take him somewhere private and quiet, like a creek by a forest or something like that. A place that was made for secrets and confessions and heart-to-hearts. But I couldn't, and it wasn't the place or time to confess any of the weird midnight thoughts I've had over the past week. Nothing serious, just a couple strange urges to hold a pale, scrawny hand attached to a pale, scrawny body.

He didn't need me like that, though. He needed to be the usual Morgan that he knew, the one that talked him off the ledge when he needed it. This was one of those times,

"Kid," I spoke gently, "I need you to tune everything out around you right now and just focus on me."

He nodded slowly, squeezing his eyes closed as he fished for something in his pocket.

"I know that this week has been tough for you. It has for all of us, but you're feeling the blow because you relate to the unsubs," I watched carefully as he pulled sunglasses from his pocket. "But when we get home, I trust you to prescribe yourself some rest and relaxation."

"Morgan..."

"It's not what you want to hear, I get that."

"All the paperwork..."

I rolled my eyes, "Consider it done. I just need you to be back in tip-top shape for Clooney's return in a week and a half."

Spencer gave a small chuckle and slipped the sunglasses over his eyes, "I'm worried to meet him. I hope he likes me."

"He's never met someone he didn't like, and I've introduced him to some mean people," I nudged Spencer's coffee toward him, "Now drink up. Last day here in sunny Florida, then we head home. You can make it."

"I can make it, I can make it." He stood, mumbling to himself and rushing away to grab some breakfast. "Morgan says I can make it, so I can make it."


	6. Chapter 6

The jet felt like it was way too full to be normal. Nothing was different about the jet or the people on it. In fact, Spencer often had a pile of books on the table before him when we flew, but as his table was completely absent, it was even emptier than usual. I considered sitting next to him, across from him, whatever. His hands were shaking as they pressed into his temples, his sunglasses askew on his face, and I could tell the headache he had now was worse than all the ones in Florida combined.

I winced. Last time I'd seen him like that was in the shed. The whole memory was the reason I wanted to protect Spencer in the first place, but it seemed like I wasn't helping as much as I thought I was.

Before I could even move, Hotch was on his feet and slowly walking over to him. I pulled out my phone in an attempt to look busy. It wasn't a question of whether or not I was going to eavesdrop—I was definitely going to—but whether I was going to like it or not. I untangled my headphones and plugged them in, pretending to search for something to listen to.

Hotch was used to giving private or bad news in public, so he was an expert at talking low enough to where people who weren't listening too diligently could hear. However, I was listening diligently, maybe even more than, so I could pick out a few choice words and deduct what was going on from that. And it wasn't good.

The only times I've heard Hotch mention suspension was the time that Garcia had encrypted files on her computer, the issue with Elle and the questionable intent, and when Spencer blocked the team from the Savage kid with his gun. Only those times. And I knew that there must have been a few other times, but not that I could hear. That was what worried me.

The conversation lasted a few moments, maybe a minute or two without the pauses in Spencer's speech, but overall it felt like a lifetime. I considered staying put to decrease suspicion of the team in my actions, but I quickly realized that what they thought didn't really matter. I stumbled over myself getting out of my chair, but no one seemed to notice. Except for Spencer, of course.

"Y'know, loss of bodily control and movement such as stumbling is a symptom of Ataxia," Spencer mumbled through his hands that covered his eyes, a weak smirk on his face. "Considering you've been bumping into things all day, I think you might want to get that checked out."

I laughed, but it wasn't as genuine as I wanted it to be. Spencer looked up through his fingers.

"I'm worried for you, kid." I figured I'd get to the point.

"Okay, _Hotch_. What all are you worried about?"

I frowned. "Reid, I know you're mad about all of this. But shouldn't it just... doesn't it dawn on you sometimes that we care about you?"

He was silent for a long, long time. Brooding, angry doctor silence.

"Since when does the threat of suspension and the pity of your coworkers translate into care?"

"Okay, pretty boy." I wasn't angry, per se. I was irritated in Spencer for not seeing right through my dumb words and just telling me something about how my heart was racing and how that would add up to why I was being all stumbly and clumsy, and I was especially irritated that he mistook my love for pity.

There was a thought. My love. My love for Spencer.

"What do you mean, _okay, pretty boy_?" He slid his sunglasses down onto his nose and crossed his arms over his chest, leaning back like a pouting child. "No life lesson? No making me feel better? What's the point of this?"

"What's the point of me trying to make you feel better if you just shoot down everything I say?" I mimicked his posture, "I'm saying, okay. If you're troubled, I get it, if you're having terrible headaches and your life looks terrible, alright. But the difference between pity and compassion is the lack of narcissism. We aren't looking down on you by trying to help. We're trying to help so that we can bring you back up to where you need to be."

His Adam's apple bobbed in his throat. "I..."

"I'll leave you to your pouting, but when we get home, Reid, we need to find some kind of level ground," I leaned over and brushed his hair from his face. "Okay?"

"Yeah," he whispered. "Okay."

I walked back to my chair and continued working on my headphones. Even though I knew no one was looking at me, I could feel their attention like a barrier around each of them. My phone buzzed on the table. Once, then twice.

I looked.

A message from Hotch and from Reid, almost simultaneously. Both reading the same two words that made the pride in my chest well up.

 _Thank you._


	7. Chapter 7

When the door shut behind me, I realized that the plans I'd made for tonight on the way home weren't going to work out.

Spencer was there in my living room, soaking wet with the rain. His messenger bag was obstructing what view I had of him, however the rain had soaked through his shirt and I could make out distinct curves, dents, and shapes of his body that I hadn't ever seen before. And that was exciting and terrifying at the same time.

His hair was slicked back like it used to be, but he looks less like a kid and more like a man that's gotten shot several times and has blocked his team from line of fire. It's strange, thinking back to where he began. More importantly, it was interesting to think about how I was back then. How our dynamic grew over time; from my teasing and his cowering to him in my living room just existing and my knees buckling at the sight of him.

He asked me some typical housekeeping things. Like whether or not to put his shoes at the door, if there was anywhere he could change, and if I had any tea that wasn't decaf. They were easy questions, but I stuttered through them like a car engine underwater. I couldn't tell if he'd noticed or not. He was surprisingly oblivious to it all as he rushed around trying to gather his bearings. Most likely, he was stressing over the talk we were going to have.

I had planned on talking to him about things like how the team cares about him, how he didn't have to hide his feelings because when he did, he'd explode like he did on the jet. But everything was going blank in my head. I was desperate to tell him how painful the past few hours had been. I didn't know how to do this. I hadn't declared love since the sixth grade, and usually when I'm telling people I'm attracted to them, they were female and at a bar. This was a total 180-degree change from what I was used to. I was vulnerable. Of course, I couldn't tell if that was a good thing or not.

"So..." Spencer appeared in the doorway of the living room in the same pajamas from the night before. I looked over him really quickly and bit back a snarky remark. He obviously felt comfortable in them, more relaxed. The last thing I wanted to do was make him feel self conscious.

Without saying a word, I sat down. I was worried that as soon as my mouth was open, it'd be a mess of confession that I didn't think I, nor the lanky man in my doorway, was ready for. After a few moments, he followed me over and sat a cushion over, folding his legs over each other and placing his nervous hands in the basket he had created. I watched him fidget there for what seemed like hours before I spoke.

"You know that we care about you. Right?"

The air was heavy and dull around us as the silence settled into our bones. Spencer sat, looking at his lap and playing with his sleeves, fingers, whatever was in reach.

"Yeah, I know."

"And you know that, no matter what, we could never hurt you on purpose," I added, dipping my head down to get into Spencer's line of view. "Right?"

"Yeah."

"So why do you feel like you have to keep these things inside of that big brain of yours?" I pressed two of my fingers into his temple. "You have enough objective knowledge for the whole planet, but when you keep all of these emotions inside those file cabinets up there, it makes you self-destruct."

"I don't know," he murmured. He placed his palms over his eyes and leaned back onto the couch. His knee touched my arm and I felt like I was electrocuted."Several psychology articles suggest that our tendencies to conceal our feelings are primal in order to avoid looking weak toward predators that aren't there. But they are there. We encounter them every day, Morgan."

"Reid-"

"And I'm weak. I'm so, so weak." His tear ducts were beginning to shimmer, "And I needed you but I was scared that it'd just be a dream when I woke up, because that's what usually happens when I think things are going great, things fall apart, and-"

I kissed him. Quick, like an exclamation mark at the end of a sentence and I leaned back and waited. For a slap to the face, for him to jump off the couch and run to grab his things, for him to tell me that it's not professional and that Hotch wouldn't be amused. But he just sat there with wide eyes, looking at the space right between my eyes.

"I..." He began, taking a break to close his mouth and swallow what was left of his shock. "Morgan..."

"How do I help you?" I murmured, "How do I save you from yourself?"

"I..." He looked down to his hands and back up to me, "Will you kiss me again?"


	8. Chapter 8

I figured a spiritual and emotional connection between the two of us the night before had completely knocked us out, because we'd slept through my first two alarms. We weren't late or anything, there was an hour or two before we even had to start get moving anywhere. But even if we were going to be late, I wouldn't have woken him up for the world. His first night sleeping for more than an hour at once in a week, and I was going to let him enjoy it.

To be fair, I could only remember the amazing, new parts of the day before. Not that there was any part that wasn't totally amazing, but the words I was planning on saying the whole way back on the jet were lost in my subconscious. The only thing left were memories of kissing and holding and things of that nature. Dare I say, it was more intense than many other activities I've done, because this was my first time doing these things with a man. My best friend, that's a man, that was in my bed, sleeping against me.

I kind of wanted to wake him up, actually. It was like that feeling when a baby or small animal has been brought into your home for the weekend and you want to pet them and play with them and make sure they're happy, but they're exhausted for the ride over and you have to wait. I just wanted to kiss him awake like Sleeping Beauty, but less creepy and more realistic.

That was silly, though, and a little mean on my part. So I just sat for an hour wrapping his hair around my index finger with my eyes closed, feeling him beside me like a heated blanket. At some point during the night, my shirt had come off, but I couldn't feel the sting of marks on me. That gave me some hope that I hadn't rushed him. To be truthful, because I didn't know what I was feeling, it was hard to tell what I wanted. But I liked kisses. Those were nice. Unsurprisingly perfect. He was probably thinking of the mathematical and scientific concepts of kissing and the ratio of lips to tongue.

"Morgan?" He mumbled through half-closed lips, splaying his fingers across my chest and feeling around. "That you?"

I smiled. I remembered that he had muttered the words _am I dreaming_ several times the night before, to which I would kiss him hard enough that would wake him up if he was. Which he wasn't.

"Yep. It's me, pretty boy." I stroked his hair gently, breaking through the tangles as painlessly as possible.

"I'm awake?" He sat up, the covers surrounding him like a pool of warmth. He reached over and grabbed his glasses, throwing them onto his face to look at me. "Wow."

"Wow?"

His eyes were wide, almost double the size of usual as his gaze raked over my face and my torso. He was trying to profile my thoughts, trying to figure out how I felt about the fact that he was in my bed and his mouth had been on mine less than ten hours before. "And you're..."

"Still here, yes." I slowly moved closer and gathered him into my arms, "And even if I wanted to leave, I couldn't. This is my house."

He gave a weak, quiet laugh. I could feel him shifting in my embrace and I started to release him, but his fingers grasped around my arm. "Don't leave."

"I'm not, Spencer. I'm just making sure you're comfortable."

I held my arms still as he writhed around for a few minutes, trying to untangle his shirt sleeves from his arms so that he could comfortably wrap himself around me. He was like a puppy that was used to running around so much that he couldn't keep still when he was being held. Huh. I compared him to a puppy a lot. I guessed I just missed Clooney.

"You've never called me Spencer before," he murmured against my shoulder, letting his hands explore everywhere above the blankets. He gently prodded at my cheeks, wrapped gentle hands around my jaw. Taking in all of me, like a memory he wanted to keep fresh forever. I felt like I was being put on a pedestal, but not in a bad way. In a... sweet, Spencer way. "It sounds weird when you say it."

"Do you want me to stop?" I regretted saying his first name, a little. I mean, I've always called him Spencer in my head ever since I met with his mother for the first time. She refused to let me call him anything but his name, and it just stuck to me. While Reid reminded me of the BAU, a skinny doctor with his arms outstretched with a gun and a concentrated look on his face, Spencer would forever remind me of the man with a heart of gold who told me all of his bullying stories over a handful of chips in the darkened back yard of Rossi's house.

This man, in my bed, wasn't an agent with the BAU. He was new and sparkling and warm, like he'd just walked out of a warm car right into the cold night air.

"No, it's a good weird," he assured me with furrowed eyebrows, thinking of what to say next. "I like it. I like you."

"I like you too, pretty boy."


	9. Chapter 9

As soon as I walked into the bullpen, eyes were on me quicker than a gunshot. I would rather have had been shot than have to be subjected to all the attention I had gotten in 0.5 seconds. Garcia froze while passing out the case file, and JJ and Prentiss exchanged a glance that spoke volumes in girl-language. I wasn't going to make it out alive.

"Where's... my... pumpkin spice latte with extra milk?" She looked behind me with searching, analyst eyes. "Did you _lose_ him?"

"We go in separate cars, baby girl." That was, of course, a lie. We'd planned out how to go back to work in the car; he'd hide in the car park for two to three minutes, about the time it'd take me to park and walk up the stairs. He'd walk in and say that traffic was just a little slower than usual, and toss in some statistics to throw them off our trail. Spencer was weary about lying to his team, but I reminded him that he'd lied plenty of times to their questions about his wellbeing. Although he frowned at that, he agreed.

"He can catch up when he gets here. Garcia?" Hotch looked over to her, the eye-bags and rasp of sickness still present, but fading.

"Ah! Yes," she tossed me a case file and pressed a button on her remote, flashing her findings up on the screen. All the agents in the room swiveled in their chairs, full attention, pens at the ready for notes.

I was usually a great listener. Still am. Usually when people I care about are struggling with life, or feel that they're threatened. Meetings in the bullpen were easy. I just had to listen, like I always could, and wrack my brain to figure out why the unsub is acting the way they are.

I tried to focus as best I could, I really did. I put my pen down so I wouldn't fidget, I straightened the case file after I was done, I pretty much did everything but actually listen. It was only when I heard a small _sorry I'm late, traffic was a bit slower than I had anticipated_ from behind me that I began to focus in on what was going on.

"Reid," Hotch nodded to the space of carpet beside him. Spencer ran over and stood, resting his messenger bag on his hip and played nervously with the straps. "You can brief yourself on the jet. Wheels up in ten."

Everyone took their time on getting out of their chairs, gathering their things and case files. Except for Garcia and Prentiss. They stood precariously by the door, pretending to have a conversation about shoes or bags. Garcia pointed to her bright orange shoes while Prentiss showed off her bag.

Spencer looked at me for what to do. I shrugged and gestured to the door that the women weren't occupying. He nodded and smiled, rushing off to follow Hotch and ask about the possibility that the killer might have Ataxia, due to his lack of control in his stabs.

"Okay," I crossed my arms over my chest and gave a tight smile to the ladies in front of me, "What's the issue."

"I called Reid's home phone last night and he didn't pick up," Prentiss explained quietly, looking down at her shoes. "I was worried about his headaches and I wanted to check on him. But I didn't know where he lived..."

"So she called me," Garcia smiled mischievously, "and I went and checked on my Sugar Plum myself. He always answers his phone unless he's hurting or knocked out."

"Or gone," Prentiss remarked. "He wasn't there when we got there. So we were trying to think where he could be."

"So we checked with JJ," the perky blonde pulled out her tablet and clicked on a video file. "We checked with Hotch, Rossi, everyone."

I rolled my eyes. "CCTV footage, Penelope?"

"Yes! CCTV footage, my sweet. You weren't answering your phone either," she double-tapped the screen. We all watched as a grainy image of my black truck pulled into my parking space. She pointed as a figure hopped out of the vehicle. "That's you."

Prentiss pointed again as a small, lanky figure with a messenger bag stumbled out from the passenger seat. Spencer had his fingers pressed into his eyes and I scoffed and looked away as my shadow ran over and wrapped his arm around my neck to help him up the stairs. "That's Reid. Right?"

"He didn't want to be alone last night. I let him stay the night. What's the problem?"

"Reid's neck," they murmured in sync.

I sighed and dropped my head into my hands. Garcia clapped excitedly and Prentiss just stared in shock. "Wait, you're actually...?"

"No, we're not... it wasn't..." I sighed loudly, "Nothing is official."

"Who initiated?" The raven-haired woman asked, her eyebrows arched. "Reid?"

"Oh, of course it wasn't Reid. That boy couldn't order his own coffee in a public space if he wanted to," Garcia gently brushed off my shoulders with a wide grin on her face. "My babies, my babies. Nothing could ever be simple with you two."

"Garcia, we're not-"

"Derek?"A quiet voice came from the end of the hallway. Spencer stood there without his bag, his hands in his pockets and his posture tight and tall. He looked... confident. No matter how shy his voice was. I could feel my chest tighten. I wasn't used to his voice wrapped around my name, but I liked it more than anything I could have imagined.

" _Derek_ ," Garcia whispered, smiling so wide I thought her face would rip in half.

"Coming, pretty boy!" I called to him, giving murderous glances to the ladies. "Please don't freak him out. I've gotten him out of his shell so far. I don't want you two chasing him back in."

"Okay, alright. Alright," Garcia threw her hands up in defense. "I will calm down the crazy."

"Good..." I gave them one last glare before jogging over to Spencer. "Hey."

"Hey..." He gave a nervous glance to Garcia and Prentiss before leaning up and pecking me on the lips, quickly grabbing my hand and dragging me down the hall toward the launch pad.

I caught a glimpse of Garcia's face and I smiled. She didn't know as much as she thought she did.


	10. Chapter 10

The case only took us about twelve hours to solve. Spencer was apparently onto something with his mention of Ataxia—the stabbing was a way to feel in control of his movements, because no matter how you jerk around with a knife, there will be lethal consequences. He and I questioned many of the store owners around the small town, asking for recent purchases of large knives.

"He'd look like this..." Spencer slid a piece of paper with his crude drawing across the table top. The man looked at me, but I just shrugged. "About five-foot-four, balding, big horn-rim glasses. Would have been looking for some kind of rigid steak knives, most likely off-brand steel. Wooden handle. Anything like that?"

The store was fairly empty, save for the weaponry hanging around the walls on rickety nails along with typical hunter décor-antlers, camouflage, wooden paneling. Everything smelled of gunpowder and grease, but some kind of synthetic version. Like it came from a candle.

The man looked at him for a long time, then glanced at me. "He didn't look at anything?"

"I have a good memory," Spencer gave him a flat-lipped smile. "Have you seen anyone like that, Mr. Gray?"

Garcia tracked down Josiah Millar via CCTV footage on the main street running through the town. From there, Spencer drew an articulated map of all of the streets that branch off of there. Spencer noted that there was one road that was hardly ever driven over, due to the lack of identifiable marks on the dirt, except for recent treads. Garcia then looked up the tire treads, and from there, we could identify what car he drove, where he lived, and what his past was like.

We found him in the basement of his newest victim's house, and we were just in time to save her. Spencer insisted on escorting him out, although Hotch was uneasy.

I watched with part jealousy and part concern as Spencer grabbed the back of the man's neck as he walked him to the door, scolding him under his breath about how mental illness and psychosomatic disorder don't cause homicidal tendencies. It was weird to see him like this; usually when he related to the unsub, he'd use his own experiences to let the unsub know he's not alone. This time, though, he was disappointed with the man. Like a father.

That was an interesting thought. Although the Reid Effect was something that Hotch had coined, he wasn't entirely sure that it would happen anymore. Especially not with Clooney. The Reid Effect had failed in a few occasions; meeting Henry, meeting Jack, meeting Sammy on a case. These had all been relatively new, yes, but it meant that he was gaining his humanity. Not that he hadn't any in the beginning. Just... he was different. He'd grown up.

I waited outside of the house, drying my hands with Rossi, watching as Spencer spoke to the officers that surrounded the police car that held the unsub. His hands were tightening and moving in small ways near his chest. He was trying to regulate all of the stress and overwhelming attention he was getting. It was one of his tendencies. I found it endearing. I didn't tell him, however. I didn't want him to think I was romanticizing it, because I wasn't. I was romanticizing him.

"He's smitten," Rossi said, tucking his rag into his pocket and watching on thoughtfully as Spencer tucked his hair behind his ear as the police car drove off.

I looked over at him, "What?"

"Look at him," Rossi shook his head with a smile on his face, chuckling. "He's lost without you at his side. His hands."

"He's overwhelmed," I told him.

"No, look at how he's moving. He wants to hold onto someone. You. He's overwhelmed because you're not beside him."

I didn't think about that. I knew he liked me and stuff, but to think that his ticks and quirks were beginning to revolve around my presence was a promising thought. Not that I wanted it to happen. That wasn't my intention—it was just that, in the circumstances, it was nice to see that not only was he more comfortable in my home, he was comfortable with me. There were many things to worry about in the world, but the thought of Spencer made everything disappear.

We stood there, looking on as he lifted his hand to his mouth to bite his nails, then adjusted his holster. I was pushed forward, stirring up dirt as I lost my footing.

"Well, what are you with me for? Go over there!"

I brushed myself off and sent an awkward smile to the small, all-knowing Italian man before walking my most confident walk over to him. I stood there for a few moments, observing as Spencer kicked at the dust, messed with his hands, tucked his hair behind his ear. He didn't even notice I was there until I wrapped my arm around his shoulders. He leaned into me, moving his hand to rest on my lower back as we kept an eye on the distancing car as it drove toward the horizon.


	11. Chapter 11

It wasn't long back home that Spencer and I were called into Hotch's office.

We were worried, of course. Rumors of the fraternization policy were rampant in the BAU, even before Garcia and I started flirting with each other. I had an air of hope, however, due to Rossi's encouragement of my and Spencer's relationship. If there was one, that is.

That was another problem. I didn't know what... we were. If we were friends, best friends, best friends who kissed each other one night, friends with kissing benefits, or boyfriends. There were so many options, especially with the lanky boy that had stolen my heart. If Hotch asked what was going on, I was going to let Spencer talk. And if he didn't, I'd just... vaguely speak about things until he chose what we were. Or... something to that appeal. I didn't really plan it out very well.

Spencer was a lot more nervous. The only times he'd ever gotten called into Hotch's office were on his first day, and the times where he was acting up. And when Spencer was angry, there was no way he was going to feel any shame or embarrassment. But this was new. For both of us.

"Both of you, sit." Hotch gestured to the chairs in front of his desk as he settled into his own. He didn't seem mad. I'm sure Rossi had talked him into giving us a free pass, but with Hotch, you could never tell.

Spencer was shaking badly. He grasped the arms of the chair until his hands turned completely white. I tried to be his rock, or at least appear like I was going to walk out of the office alive, but apparently I wasn't convincing enough for Hotch.

"You're not in trouble."

I smiled, relieved, while Spencer happy sigh was so loud I was afraid how long he'd been holding his breath for. I gently reached over and placed my hand on top of Spencer's. His shoulders relaxed a little.

"There is no acting policy against fraternization, no matter what you've heard around the office," Hotch began. "There is, however, a rule against active PDA during work hours. What you did on the case yesterday, was fine. In fact, Rossi told me that he encouraged it."

I nodded. Spencer nodded. We exchanged glances, hoping it wasn't going to get awkward.

"What you did in the hallway, Reid," Hotch turned his attention to the small man beside me, whose eyes went wide, "Is less acceptable."

Spencer's mouth went wide, "I... I-I, I totally forgot about-"

"It's fine, Reid. Just as long as it doesn't happen again." Hotch gave him a very empathetic, yet small smile. "We can't break you up at the BAU, we don't want to either. When the main guys come in, they check everything. They can make sure you two are separated for good on cases and in the workplace. I don't want that for you."

"Yes, sir," we mumbled in unison, sneaking cheeky glances up at each other through our eyelashes and thanking whatever God was watching that we had the best boss.

"You're both dismissed. I told Garcia I'd let you speak to her next. Rossi may or may not have prepared a slideshow presentation on the miracle of life, but I can get Garcia to destroy it if necessary."

As soon as we were out of Hotch's office, a small, bubbly blonde had both of our hands in hers and was dragging us into her Batcave. I couldn't hold in my laughter, because I was somewhat used to this touchy-feely-hold-hand Garcia. Spencer wasn't. Spencer was wriggling and trying to get out of her grasp.

"Spill! Please. I beg of you," she settled us into respective chairs and sat on the table across from us. "What's going on with you two?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but Spencer beat me to the punch.

"We're dating now," he said with an excited grin. He observed my face with curious eyes, "Is that okay for me to say?"

"Completely fine by me, pretty boy." I grinned to myself and leaned back into my chair as Garcia began to overload Spencer with questions about personal things that he was glad to oblige in sarcastically making up things.

The day sped by. Everyone we came in contact with during the day congratulated us on a relationship that I could have congratulated myself on. When Spencer's hands would twitch, I'd desperately want to hold him and make sure he was okay, but I knew there'd be plenty of time for that once we got home.

In the truck, Spencer gently hummed along to the Beethoven CD he'd bought in one of the shops we were interrogating. He tapped his fingers on his seatbelt and bobbed his head like someone else would to pop music. It was interesting watching him dance out of the corner of my eye. He was totally in his element. Even after a long day of congratulations and celebrations, he still had the energy to vibe along to classical music. I smiled as he caught me watching at a red light. His face shone bright red and he stopped for a few minutes until he started again once he was tired of sitting still again.

His phone buzzed. "Tomorrow's case is in Vegas..."

"Is it?" I glanced over, "You excited?"

"Yeah," he nodded slowly, thinking. "Yeah, I miss it there. I think it'll be more fun this time around, though. Since you'll be there with me in this new context."

"You gonna show me all the sights, Spencer?" I turned into the parking lot.

"If you want. I can show you where I grew up," he said in a monotonous voice.

I parked and pulled the key out of the ignition, turning in my seat. He seemed totally oblivious to what he just said, if not totally unfazed by the fact he said it. He sat there for a moment, just humming Beethoven and beginning to get out of the car. I ran around the car and gently placed my hands on his shoulders. "Spencer..."

His confused eyes scanned my face, "What?"

"That was so..." I smiled and took his hand, "… _romantic_."

"It is?" His eyes gleamed and he squeezed my hand. "Then I'll _definitely_ show you. Maybe I can take you on a tour if the new residents haven't moved in yet."

"That sounds amazing."

He took my hand and dragged me inside, and there we held each other with big grins on our faces until we fell asleep.


	12. Chapter 12

The morning of the Vegas trip was busy.

I had a plan in the works to meet with his mother again, to make sure I had her blessing and to get any other vital information about his past that I would need. I wrote up some questions that I knew for a fact wouldn't trigger one of her episodes, and stuffed it into my front pocket.

I called the hospital Diana was in after Spencer had gone to bed to make sure it was okay if I visited, and if she wanted to see me. The answer to both of those was yes, of course, and I managed to sneak in a moment of time before her last visiting period of the day. The nurses asked why I hadn't visited in awhile, which made me laugh. They couldn't keep their hands off me.

Spencer didn't dress up for the occasion, not that I expected him to. He wore his least favorite everything. A matching corduroy suit with a normal red tie and white dress shirt. I imagined that it may have been for a case, but I couldn't help but worry. Not that he was a fashionista. He wasn't. I didn't know, maybe I was overreacting. Spencer was an unpredictable person, anyway.

I was worried for him. Often, when he was within a five-mile radius of his mother, he had his hazard lights on. He would get on edge easily and memories would often swing back to hit him in the face. As much as I didn't want that to happen, I knew it was all in perspective. Spencer wouldn't want me to stop it. He'd remind me that _all memories that come back are welcome to me, it gives me a reminder that I'm not crazy yet_. Yet. That part was always a punch in the stomach..

"All packed?" I asked him gently, grabbing my bag and lugging it over my shoulder. I walked toward him, quickly stopping in my tracks when I noticed the warning signs of a Grenade Reid. He was standing at his desk, flipping through the pages of a book. I could see the familiar tension in his shoulders, the tight way his fingers ran over the words, and the angry glare he was sporting as he read. Usually, reading gave him a place to escape, made him feel better when he was down. Or irritated. But there was no book, phrase, or word that could bring him down from whatever livid-train he was riding on.

If anyone tried to touch him, he'd explode. If anyone tried to profile him, he'd explode. If I looked at him the wrong way, tried to get him to admit something he didn't want to, or even tried to rush him, he'd blow up like a pressurized bomb. And, even though I knew he wouldn't mean anything he said on his angry-highs, it would still sting. I was already walking on eggshells. "Spencer."

"Yeah. Coming." He slammed the book shut and gathered his bag in his arms. "Ready."

"Are you okay, kid?" I brushed his hair from his face as he ducked his head down. "You're acting a lot more quirky than usual."

"Something wrong with quirky?" He was definitely irritated with someone or something. I tried to think of something I could have done to bother him, and nothing came up. The night before was fine. More than fine. All my worries peeled away when I had late night talks with Spencer, and the same often went for him. It couldn't be me that was irking him. Maybe Garcia was getting to close to his tail? Prentiss? Hotch? Anyone?

"You don't have to tell me, but just know we're here for you."

"I guess." Spencer pushed past me toward the loading deck.

On the jet ride, Hotch pulled me aside and asked me what the matter was. I told him everything I knew; that I had been with him the whole day before with no way for him to sneak away and inject, that I had made sure there were no drugs in the entire house save for a few pills of Advil in the cabinet.

"The only thing I know is that we're going to Vegas, and ever since he woke up, he's been acting like this," I shook my head. "Do I just let him ride this out, or do I try to help?"

Hotch sighed loudly and pointed to Rossi, whose reading glasses were placed on his nose as he tried to figure something out on his phone. "There's your man."

Rossi ran me through all the possibilities that could have been; repressed memories he didn't want to come across, location-centered depression, anxiety for returning to Vegas. All of them seemed possible, but I'd seen him through all of those situations and he never, ever acted like this. The only ways I could think of to help him as one half of the relationship would be considered PDA in Hotch's eyes, which put me at a crossroads. Either wait until we're alone to take care of him, or try to find another way.

That was where I thought Diana would come in.


	13. Chapter 13

The waiting room wasn't as crowded as it usually was. I hadn't ever visited on a Monday, though. It was midday, before people started filtering out of work. The only people in the room were the nurses and a man asleep in the corner. I couldn't tell how long he had been here, but it wasn't a good sign.

"Oh, um... Derek Morgan to see Diana Reid," I leaned over the counter to watch as the nurse checked me in. "Thank you."

"No problem, handsome." She smiled at me, and I wasn't sure if she was blinking fast on purpose. She was proud of her hands, showing them off like trophies on the counter, tapping her long, acrylic nails against the fake tile. I grimaced; she reminded me of high school sophomores at their tenth house party—full of themselves. "You live around here?"

"Virginia," I commented, grabbing a waiver and turning to walk away, "But right now, I need to visit my boyfriend's mother."

My paperwork took a lot longer than it usually did, most likely because the nurse realized she'd get nothing out of treating me better than the other people waiting to visit. My shoes squeaked against the floor as I bounced my legs up and down, nervous for some reason. Diana liked me, I was sure of that. She liked talking to me about how her baby was doing, because when she asked him, he would just say he was fine or something. She trusted me to tell her every detail, which I couldn't have done better than Spencer, but because my observation skills had grown stronger over the past few days, I trusted I would give a good summary.

She was worried, though, about my ability to handle him "at his worst." I didn't know what that meant, but I knew I'd seen him in some tough times. I couldn't think of a worse-off Spencer than post-Hankel Spencer. What could he have done that was worse than drug addiction? He was a pretty slender, small guy. The possibilities were limited. If he had done a crime, he wouldn't have been able to do much in the BAU but sit with Garcia and try to keep up.

Finally, Diana's doctor came through the doors and smiled at me. "Agent Morgan."

"Please, just Derek." I shook his hand and gave him a smile in return, "How is she today?"

"A lot better. It seems as though she's in the perfect shape to talk to you, today." He clapped me on the back and gestured with his clipboard to the doors. "Right through there, where she usually is."

I pushed through the doors and was met with the dim lighting of the visitation room. People sat in various shapes and sizes of cliques, communicating through chess boards or books, the sunlight filtering through the blinds. I searched around the room for the woman that'd stand out, and quickly caught the tuft of blonde hair sticking over a book with no title on the outside edge.

I shuffled through the room, throwing kind smiles to everyone who glanced my way. I finally reached her table in the back corner and sat down. "Hey, Diana."

"Derek," she lowered the book with cautious eyes. As soon as she saw me, she smiled and dropped it the rest of the way. "They told me you were coming."

"Well, yeah. They have to, just in case you wouldn't want to see me."

Diana shook her head, rolling her wrist dismissively. "Never would that happen. You're my outside eyes. What's going on out there, anywhere?"

"Well, I actually had to run something by you."

Her look changed drastically, her eyes narrowing and her shoulders squaring back in a defensive pose. "You want to be with him."

"Yes..." I could feel my cheeks grow hot. "How could you tell? Are you a profiler like Spencer?"

"You've started calling him Spencer, for one." She looked down to her book and began to flip pages, "But as I've told my son many times, a mother knows. I could see it on you the second you sat down."

I sighed. She didn't look too happy. In fact, she looked neutral. Which, in my experience with mothers, was never a good thing.

"Are you two already pursuing something?" She asked, somewhat dismally.

"Yes," I watched as her expression changed into one of contempt, "but! I made sure he wasn't being rushed, and in fact, he was the one who officiated the whole thing. I made sure I wasn't rushing him and stuff."

"He's here in Vegas with you, right?" She began to glance around nervously. I told her to breathe, and to take her time. "Has he been acting strange?"

"Um,,,"

"Irritated?" When I didn't answer, her eyes went wide and she stood, shoo-ing me away from the table. "Derek, he needs you."

"What?"

"Go get him, he's doubting and overthinking. Drowning in memories of old relationships that didn't end well—Nurse?" She waved someone over. "Please go, make sure my baby is safe."


	14. Chapter 14

"Spencer?" I ran up the stairs to our hotel, trying the best to seem calm around the people that were settling into their rooms. I looked around for him, or even for a person on our team, but all I saw were Hawaiian-shirted tourists, sparkly dressed people ready for the town (at three in the afternoon), and the occasional soccer mom that was just there for her husband's addiction. A few people looked at me as I sprinted through the lobby toward the stairs—always a precaution after the last time I almost died in one that wasn't in the BAU.

I had run up my fair share of stairwells saving victims and making sure that deliveries were on time, but this seemed so much worse. Every step I passed was another second that Spencer was alone. I'd left him alone because I thought that was good for him. The doctor who was afraid of his own mind, left alone in the town he grew up in.

I fished the keycard from my front pocket, shoving it into the door. It clicked open with ease. That was a good sign. He wasn't obstructing it with furniture or himself, which meant that he wasn't doing anything questionable or... maybe he wanted me to find him. I sighed, disappointed with myself. Diana was right. I shouldn't have just let him coast like I was, or he'd never get out of his head alive.

"Pretty boy?" I made sure the door was closed before running to the bathroom. Our hotel room was just a big block of space with two small beds, a television mounted on the wall, a few chairs and a desk. The only place he could have been without my seeing him was in the only separate place in the room that had a door that could lock. I knocked quietly on the door, "Spencer, there's no keycard for this door."

"I know," he croaked. His voice was so weak, curled up in a paper ball and thrown at the door without so much as a thud. It was echoed slightly by the tile of the bathroom, but ultimately, it was a pin dropping on a carpet—almost unheard.

I pressed my hands into the wood, resting my forehead in between. "I'm so sorry, please let me in."

The shower curtain rattled on its rails. He was in the bathtub. The sound of corduroy rubbing together gave me a sense of confidence in my decision—at least he wouldn't feel even more vulnerable because he had no clothes. Gideon had once told us all about the comfort of the bathroom, how it held almost all the tools needed to get someone back to mental health; showers, baths, warm towels, bandaids, medicine. Of course Spencer would fit that archetype. Where else does one go when their mind is taking them over?

Another perspective to that thought that could potentially ruin it was that most people often slit their wrists in the bathtub as it often calms them and reduces pain. But the corduroy sounded dry, so it couldn't have been. But what if it was? I couldn't risk it.

"Spencer-"

I heard the click of the lock echo around the room. He opened the door slowly, his right eye coming into view. I wrapped my fingers around the inside of the door and gently pushed it open. He stood there, crumbled like leaves, his hair and clothes in disarray and books scattered around the floor. It was dark without the light on, but the way his hands were moving and his eyes were straining to stay open, I could tell he was having another migraine.

He opened his mouth to say something, but I quickly took him in my arms in the dark. His cold nose buried itself in the crook of my neck and I felt the tears run down my skin. He didn't make a noise, he didn't shake or sob. He just let me hold him, and let the tears go. He was never really a crier in public. Not _real crying_ anyway. A tear or two would fall, but he'd wipe them away and walk off to leave the stressor. I was worried that he didn't feel comfortable enough to cry around me until his long fingers grasped the back of my shirt and he let out stuttered breaths.

"I can't do this without you," he spoke through gritted teeth, raw emotion coming out of his voice in seethes, "I can't just pretend like nothing's happening but it's all I know how to do. I can't care for people until I love myself but I love you anyway and everything you do is so perfect and I didn't expect you to come back but you did and I've just been using myself up all day just trying to breathe and it's so hard but I can't not breathe because then I'd die and then I'd never get to see you again..."

He ran out of breath, gasping for air, tugging at my shirt. I just pressed my lips to his hair, holding him as strongly and confident as I could. "I love you too, Spencer."

Spencer looked up at me, his eyes red but still beautiful as always. "I don't want to die yet. I want to grow old with you."

I started to smile at his sentiment, but the happiness quickly faded. The words he had spoken. They're cliches that people with suicidal tendencies tell themselves in order to off-put their depersonalization.

I quickly began to unbutton his shirt. He started to fight, but he recognized my intention and kept his arms stiffly attached to my shirt. I pulled his shirt down around his shoulders. Our eyes met, and he begged me not to. It was a common trend with people to feel ashamed of their own self harm, and I could see that shame all over his face.

I tugged the fabric down further. He turned his head away, tears dropping onto his warm shoulder as I inspected the marks on his arms. Some were straight incisions, others were bruises made from pinching himself for long periods of time through the fabric. Three of the bruises were new, forming with irritated skin that was most likely throbbing with hot red heat.

"Pretty boy..." I whispered. I could feel myself tearing up. "What kind of... _pain_ are you feeling that you have to do this to yourself?"

"I don't _know_ ," he grunted, his eyes squeezed shut.

The words that Diana told me sounded in my ears like a skipping record. He was standing in front of me, showing me his self injury, ready for the worst. I had to save him, but how?

I brought him the first aid kit that Hotch had planted in all the hotel rooms. We sat in the bathtub, him sitting meekly in my lap as I cracked open the heat pack and placed it over his newer inflictions. He rested his head on the inside of my neck and I left him to sleep. I called Hotch to tell him that we'd be no use to the team that day. He insisted that I tell him what was wrong, so I told him that he was mentally absent and the memories were coming back. I didn't tell him about the self-harm. If I did, he'd put Spencer through a series of mental health tests and programs, and I knew that it would ruin his routine.

Through all the fog of worry, I knew that he'd be okay. He loved me, and he wasn't ready to go anywhere. And neither was I.


	15. Chapter 15

"Where were you?"

Spencer was at the door in his pajamas, the shirt slipping off his shoulders as he stood stiffly in the doorway. I raised my eyebrows, putting down the book I'd picked up in the bathroom to read earlier that day. It was about the influence of culture on one's wellbeing. Topical.

"I've been right here, kid." I gestured to my position, under the covers and idle. I tried not to dwell on his demeanor, but I realized quickly that my ignorance was what got us here in the first place. "Spencer, are you... come sit with me?"

"Not until you tell me where you were. Before you came here," Spencer nervously fiddled with his fingers. "Before you saw..."

"I was with the team, getting situated." I used my FBI lying skills to get through the lie. I didn't like it, but I knew that as soon as I let it slip that I'd been meeting with his mother, he'd immediately think the worst. Diana had hinted at it before—an almost relationship that could have worked if the guy hadn't gone around Spencer in order to get the most details about him. I wasn't doing it to feign the relationship, though. That was what the past guy did. I was just making sure I wouldn't hurt him.

"If I called them, they'd testify?" He asked. His stone-cold voice was back on, the one he used when the bad guys were doing things that included children. I grimaced. Bad association.

That made me pause. Was I doing a bad thing? I hadn't gotten the chance to ask Diana if there were similarities between myself and the guy that ruined his connotation of relationship. I wanted to give myself the benefit of the doubt. But the doubts kept coming.

"Yes."

Spencer nodded, obviously in an angry way. "Please tell me. No lies."

A loud breath broke past my lips. "I'm worried that you won't listen."

"I'm listening..."

"No, I mean-" I frowned, "As soon as I say something you don't agree with, you'll shut down and your eyes'll go glassy and you'll leave before you even let me tell you why."

He didn't disagree. "What if what you say is really bad?"

"I promise what I'm about to say anything really bad," I untucked myself from the covers and let my feet touch the carpet. "Will you _sit down_ , Spencer? You're giving me some bad juju standing in the doorway like that."

He shuffled over to the bed, standing reluctantly by the bed before crawling into my lap. I placed my hand on his lower back, giving him the extra comfort he needed. He rested his forehead on my jaw, his eyelashes brushing against my neck as he waited semi-patiently for my answer.

"I wasn't with the team, and I'm sorry I lied, but I didn't want you to deconstruct my intentions and think that I didn't care. And I do care, and that's why I did thi-."

"You visited my mother."

I paused and looked down at him. "What?"

"You smell like the waiting room," he sighed into my neck. "I'll let you give your reason before I freak out or whatever."

I pressed my lips into his hair, "I didn't say you'd freak out."

He stayed silent. I could feel his heartbeat through the thin fabric of his pajamas.

"I've been worried about you for some time," I began. He tensed, but I gently stroked the soft skin of his back. "And I thought it was in a friend way for the longest time, but it started hurting when I saw you in pain. The Hankel incident made me realize that I could have helped this whole time if I hadn't been holding onto this heterosexual dignity that was totally useless to everyone."

Spencer nodded slowly, intently focusing on keeping his mouth closed until I was done speaking. I felt bad about it, like I was making him think that he shouldn't talk when I'm talking, but he should have known by then that I didn't care and that this was a very rare thing to happen.

"I was the one to suggest that you move in. She told me that you were uncomfortable in new places and that space was what you needed to get to a comfortable place. I tried that, but it didn't work with me. You just sunk into yourself, so I tried other things. Like Battlestar Galactica and books and letting you sleep in my room. And that was when the feelings started getting too much for me to bear. In the best way, believe me. But there's only so far you can go before the good feeling stings."

Spencer sighed. He was so ready to talk. I knew that. He hated being silent, but as soon as I was finished, he'd be able to grill me into oblivion and tell me what I did wrong and why with statistics and scientific experiments. He liked ranting, anyway.

"So, before you start," I smiled, knowing he could hear it in my voice, "Yes, I met with your mother without asking. But she likes me, I promise, and I always researched to make sure I wouldn't trigger anything. And she didn't tell me to fall in love with you or anything. This was all me. All Derek. I kissed you that day because I felt like I was gravitating toward you, and the only way to get the pain off of me was to just..."

His mouth was on mine in a moment. He wasn't used to initiating contact like this, as he hadn't kissed me since before Hotch called us into his office. I let him lead, letting his hands rest wherever they wanted. He liked hugging around my waist, which was an interesting piece of information. Usually the more effeminate partner likes wrapping their arms around the other's neck. Maybe I was the effeminate one. That was an idea. A funny idea.

"I love you," I murmured, a wide grin on my face.

"I love you too," Spencer said, his eyes closed with his lips turned upward. "Will you tell me everything that's bothering you from now on, even if you think I'll get all... irritated?"

I nodded and kissed his nose. He made a disapproving face, but I could see the playfulness behind it. "Of course, pretty boy."


	16. Chapter 16

The happy interlude didn't last long. We couldn't catch a break. As soon as we solved the Vegas case, we were back in Virginia, dealing with check-ins from the upper branches. Then there was an emergency call from Washington—a serial killer had kidnapped, killed, and dumped three bodies within the course of 24 hours. This, of course, was the first sign that the Spencer I was going to be sleeping in the same bed with wasn't going to be Spencer. He was Dr. Reid.

Everything was to the point and sharp like a knife. Statistics only when necessary, quiet thank you's when I'd bring him tea while he was reading the case file over and over again at one in the morning, but otherwise everything was spoken in looks and the way he moved around the room. Hotch noticed he was acting strange, but he didn't say anything. Most likely because Reid was doing a great job at deciphering things that the rest of us totally overlooked. He identified that our unsub was a male due to the slight lingering of a strong cologne, a Chanel brand.

 _"More sour than any antiperspirant that the typical male, too—typical narcissistic tendency, making sure you leave your mark on your territory. He sprays himself head to toe in this scent, most likely to fuel his own ego. Smell the part. Garcia, check for bulk purchases of a recent edition Chanel cologne that smells like masculinity personified. In-store."_

We were there for a week. At one point, everyone went out for drinks earlier than usual, knowing that Reid would do better than anyone could. I stayed with him anyway. Even if he didn't speak, the Spencer in him would appreciate the company. I was happy to be there. It was a nice excuse to openly stare at him and take in as much as I could without his objections.

"Is there any more black tea?" He mumbled through tired lips, flipping through a book on narcissism through the eyes of a narcissist. The reflection of his glasses let me watch a tiny, tiny version of his hand skim beside the words as he read them.

"We just ran out. I can go grab you some," I stood and grabbed my keys, my wallet, and my coat, heading toward the door. As much as I loved watching him read, I needed some air.

"Derek."

I turned with my hand on the door. "Yeah?"

"Are you okay?" His head was tilted to the side, as if he needed a new perspective to understand.

"Am I okay?" I laughed and smiled, "Yes, baby boy. I'm fine. Are you?"

"Truthfully, no. I would like to go home and go to sleep."

I nodded. I'd let him sleep a night in the apartment before introducing Clooney. I turned back to the door.

"I love you," Reid said, almost an afterthought. "I'm sorry."

"No need to be," I opened the door, "I'll be back in a few minutes."

It was cold outside, of course. Washington was chilly this time of year, the weird transition from fall to winter. I shoved my hands into my pockets, huffing large clouds of air as I ran down to the rental car. The closest store with any chance of carrying black tea was the small hippie store a few blocks down. That was fine with me. I was never comfortable letting Reid be alone with his FBI Warrior self. He'd overthink, and that was what led to him walking vest-less toward a reckless shooter with their finger on the trigger.

The drive was brief, the parking even more so with an almost empty parking lot. It was almost ten at night, so I didn't expect much. The bell on the door pinged, and the clerk looked over at me with a tired but kind smile. "Welcome."

"Thank you," I looked around and smiled at a man that was looking at the organic deodorants. He smiled back. "Do you have any black tea or anything that would resemble it?"

"Last shelf on the right."

I made haste, picking out various brands of black teas and only then did I notice the smell of _masculinity personified._ I shook my head. It was always me that ended up in these situations.

I pulled out my cell and called Reid. He answered on the first ring.

 _"Hello?"_

"Hey, I was just wondering what tea you wanted," I turned my head to keep him in my peripheral.

 _"Derek, it really doesn't matter-"_

"Okay, thanks babe. Yeah, they have Harvey's right here."

Reid paused for a moment and I hoped he was catching on. _"Mention black tea again if he's there."_

"Of course, I have, like four different boxes of black tea," I grabbed another and slowly headed toward the counter, walking on the other side of the shelf away from the man.

 _"We're on our way. Hang tight."_

I hung up the phone and looked to the clerk, "Excuse me? Can you tell me how much these are? I can't see any stickers or anything."

She slowly pushed off of the counter and walked over, taking the first box into her tiny hands. "This is two-fifty."

"Okay, and this one?"

The man was waiting at the counter, adjusting his items on the counter and sorting them by size to pass the time. I could make out the shape of a gun tucked into the back of his pants. I 'accidentally' dropped the boxes of tea, and the clerk laughed and began to help me pick them up. I needed to buy time. Any time.

"Um, hi?" The man spoke, semi-impatiently. "Can you check my things out?"

"One moment, sir. I need to help this man first and I'll be right there."

The sound of sirens was growing louder and louder by the second. The man at the counter was on edge as I sloooooowly handed the next box to the lady, who told me the price. I wanted so badly to tell her, but that would be Reid's job when he and the team got there. Finally, the sirens stopped and I could hear car doors shutting.

The unsub's work was sloppy. That was why I knew he wouldn't recognize what was going on until I brought the tea up the counter to distract him as the BAU crept in through the back door. He started to draw his gun, but I grabbed him before he could do anything. Hotch ran to my side, and I told him where the gun was. He pulled it and threw it across the floor. Through the fog of a victory, I could see Reid kneeling next to the clerk as she grasped onto his shirt mumbling something about how she wasn't paid enough for this.


	17. Chapter 17

Finally. The day of Sir Clooney's arrival, and Spencer was terrified. He had helped with getting all of the dog beds and toys out, talking about how he was afraid he didn't smell enough like me, that because he had a drastically different aura, he'd be seen as a threat. I gave up trying to tell him that domestic pets don't share all common traits with wild animals. He wouldn't listen, though, continuing to wear my shirts and clothes around the house in order to familiarize himself with how he could imitate his way into my dog's heart.

It was cute to watch him run around the house, making sure everything was dog-proofed and up on higher shelves. He was cleaning the house as if the President was coming over. I let him run with it. He was even cleaning the places that Clooney had never seen in his life. Spencer had bought Clooney a bone as a welcome back present. I just bought him some peanut butter.

Spencer rooted around in my closet, pulling his shirt over his head. I admired his back, the ridges of his spine running directly down the middle of him like a dotted line. I could only let myself look down halfway because around his hip area were more bruises and lines. I didn't find them ugly, obviously. He was beautiful. I just... it wasn't something I wanted to commend him on. They were there for the time being, and that was all.

"Do you have any smaller shirts?" He looked down at himself, my skin-tight shirt still hanging from his body. "I can't seem to fit into anything you own."

"Well I'll buy my clothes three sizes smaller then." I tossed a few treats into his crate, "You look precious though. Are you ready to go pick him up?"

"Ummmmm," he glanced around once before running to the bedroom. I heard rustling from a distant before he emerged, looking like a royal goofball with a sweater vest over the short sleeve shirt he had on. "For comfort."

The ride to the kennel wasn't long, but I could tell that Spencer found it completely unnerving. He wasn't a waiter. His hands wrung themselves in his lap, tucking his shirt in, then fidgeting again. I considered getting him one of those things they have in therapist offices with the blocks that you can make things out of. I'd have to get it in neutral colors. Maybe purple.

The sign was run down outside of the building, and I could tell he had doubts. He wouldn't doubt it if I would let him inside. The inside of the kennel was pristine with white tile floors and matching walls, always smelling like lavender no matter how many dogs they had inside. And complimentary cookies. I always loved it there, it was the perfect place for my boy. I made a point to make Spencer some tea as I waited for him to be brought up. I didn't bring Spencer inside, of course, because I could trust Clooney with not being affected by the Reid Effect, but I couldn't trust the rest of the animals. I didn't want to taint Spencer's excitement with a bad audience.

I glanced through the curtains. He was swaying his head gently, an unconscious smile on his face. Listening to Wagner. My pretty boy. I almost texted him to ask what symphony it was, but I didn't want to ruin his immersion in his music. I swirled the lead around my fingers, waiting.

I heard a familiar bark from across the room, and Kathy came out of the back room with Clooney in her arms. I smiled and ran to my boy. He jumped into my chest as soon as I got close enough. He licked my face and I blindly searched for my wallet in my pocket.

"He was extra good, this time. Whatever training schedule you've been using has been working," Kathy smiled and swiped my card on the plug-in piece on her iPad.

"Oh, please. You know any boy of mine is well behaved." Clooney whined, his legs wriggling around uncomfortably. I smiled. Just like Spencer.

"Speaking of boys," Kathy said, setting her tablet down to grab the receipt as it printed. "What about that one?"

I followed the direction of her finger toward the truck, where Spencer was on the phone, obviously upset that someone had interrupted his Wagner time. It wouldn't be Hotch or anyone on the team because the call had obviously gone on awhile. Maybe it was Garcia. I smiled at Kathy, "Especially that one."

She helped me hook the leash to his collar and sent me a pleading look. "Can I meet him? Please?"

"Um...? I think he wouldn't mind, but he might be a little overwhelmed. Meeting two of my best friends at once," I shrugged. "As long as you're not as intense as Garcia on the first try, you'll be great."

"As much as I want to be as bubbly as Penelope is, I don't think I could manage it. I'm coming with you. You might want to let Cloon down so he can run a little, he's been cooped up for most of today."

Kathy held the door open for us, and I let Clooney slip out of my arms and he immediately sprinted toward the truck and tightened his leash. Spencer jumped as he started barking, but a wild and nervous smile covered his face.

"Beautiful smile," Kathy muttered through the side of her face.

"Mine," I reminded her.

Spencer climbed out of the car and slowly walked over, his eyes fixed on the dog that was eager to meet him. He glanced up and me and his eyes slid over to Kathy. "Oh, hi."

"Hi," she smiled and waved. She wasn't too keen on touching humans either. Spencer smiled, relieved. "I'm Kathy and I like your sweater vest."

He looked down, "Oh, um... I'm Spencer and I... like your... hair."

She laughed, "You didn't have to compliment me back, but thank you. It's nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too..." He bent down and held his hand out for Clooney to smell. Almost immediately, a warm tongue licked up the knuckle of his index finger. Spencer looked up to me, "Was that a good thing?"

"Oh, yeah, pretty boy. He likes you," I smiled to Kathy and she waved again and jogged back to the building. "You wouldn't mind if he sits in your lap on the way home, would you? I think that might help him get acquainted with you."

He stood and nodded fervently, hugging me (once again, around my waist), "I like him. Does he like Wagner?"

"I don't know. We can try it."


	18. Chapter 18

Spencer laid by Clooney's bed, gently rubbing the dog's head and curling his fur around his fingers. He was obviously transfixed by the small creature, and it warmed my heart to see him so in love. He was eyeing him as he slept, not wanting to wake him up but kind of wanting to wake him up so that he could observe more about him.

I was sitting on the bed, the human bed, reading a book. A book on a Saturday evening, when my boyfriend was across the room and playing with my dog instead of kissing me and giving me attention. I shook my head. I felt for Spencer, though. I'd felt that way before I'd gotten a dog and got to visit someone else's. They're fascinating to watch sometimes, and it's fun to try and get into what they're thinking. I could hardly imagine to what depth Spencer was trying to figure out how dog's though processes worked as he stroked behind Clooney's ear.

"Spencer," I murmured, smiling as he lazily lifted his head, his face covered in impression marks from the wrinkles on his shirt after laying there for so long. "I know you love Cloon a lot, but I'm feeling neglected."

His eyes were blank for a moment, but he quickly remembered me and what I was to him and pushed himself up from the floor. He crawled into the human-bed and crawled into my lap, pushing my book away and placing it on the night stand. He nestled his head into the crook of my neck and sighed, "I'm sorry. I just... I love him. Not as much as you, but like in a different love. Like..."

"Puppy love. Yeah, I got it," I feigned an upset demeanor, figuring Spencer would sense the playful element. But apparently, his brain was fried from profiling the dog that he quickly changed his position into one facing me with his cold hands on either side of my face.

"Derek, no," he frowned, his frantic eyes looking all across my face. "I could never love Clooney more than I love you."

"Woah, kid. It's okay, I was joking." I raised an eyebrow, "Spencer, did you eat dinner?"

"I fed Clooney, but no. I don't believe I did."

I shook my head. "You forgot to eat because you were playing with the dog."

"Yes."

I sighed and gently gathered him in my arms, scooting off the bed to carry him to the kitchen. He didn't even budge, I could tell he was hungry, but he didn't want to admit it. He was stubborn about his feelings. If he looked weak on the outside, he definitely didn't want to seem weak on the inside. Even about simple things like hunger or the need to be held. Normal things that occasionally went amiss through the mind of Dr. Spencer Reid.

I made him some instant noodles and let him speedwalk back to the bedroom to watch Clooney sleep, and watch him mentally take note of every twitch and snort he made while he slept.

"Derek," Spencer said, placing his noodles on the carpet beside him after a long pause. He turned his head slightly, not enough to see me but enough to acknowledge that I was there. "I've been thinking about something."

I sat up in bed, placing my phone beside me in the covers. "Hm?"

"I know that you despise them," he said, pivoting his body to look at me. He nibbled on his lip for a moment, "But there are many studies that suggest that a moment of intimacy with a troubled person's self inflicted scars can increase both partners' mental health and can increase productivity in a relationship."

I stared at him for a moment, taking in his hidden nervousness. Spencer was fluctuating between himself and his "Dr. Reid" persona, rapidly interchanging between wanting to tell me how he felt openly and vulnerable, and telling me facts and statistics and keeping his poker face on like a lifeline. But this wasn't a Dr. Reid issue.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," Spencer's voice was growing more raw with each blink. He was a blinker, but he definitely wasn't a yeller. Especially not when a sleeping dog was in the room, "you can't stand to look at me with my shirt off, and it makes me feel like I'm not good enough for you, so I was just suggesting that maybe we try increasing intimacy, and maybe you could familiarize yourself with them just once so that neither of us could walk on eggshells every time I have my shirt off."

"Spe-"

"The alternative being," he continued, running his hands through his hair as his pitch began to raise as it always did when he was ranting, "I keep my shirt on around you for the rest of our lives and you get to prance around looking perfect and I'm the guy that swims in pools with his clothes on and I never show you myself which would cause a breech in our relationship, because how are you supposed to trust me when you can't see what's going on under here? How could anybody? It's like keeping myself hidden in order to please you, when in reality, I could care less what I look like. But you seem totally fixated on it, like I'd have to look a certain way always for you to tolerate me without my clothes on. Like, isn't that a vital part of a relationship? The sex, or whatever?"

"Pretty boy."

"But fine, whatever," he huffed, grabbing his noodles angrily. "I'll just keep my clothes on around you until you slowly build up the craving for sex and leave in the middle of the night and go to clubs and start meeting promiscuous people that aren't ugly like I am."

"Do you see how easy it is to open up?" I asked, watching as his face grew bright red. "I didn't say you're ugly, I'm not disgusted by you with your shirt off, and I'm certainly not going to creep out during the night to meet up with promiscuous people. That's all in your head; you're creating plot lines for memories that haven't happened."

He frowned and looked down at his food, "You didn't have to say you were disgusted. I saw the way you looked at them."

"I love you. I think you're beautiful, but I don't want to romanticize your scars. I don't want you thinking that I love you and pity you for some troubled past. I get now that I went across this the wrong way, but I'm glad that I got you to rant about your feelings," I crawled to the end of the bed and laid down, cupping his jaw in my hand. He looked up, embarrassed but in the good way. "I'd be glad to kiss you wherever would make you feel better. Just know that you don't have to hurt yourself for me to kiss you. Okay?"

He nodded and stuffed another forkful of noodles into his mouth. "Maybe not tonight?"

"Did running after Clooney tire you out?"

Spencer yawned. That was all I needed for an answer.


	19. Chapter 19

My head was pounding, I tried to move but the pain jolted from behind my eyes to the back of my skull. Everything was spinning. It wasn't an illness headache, I didn't know what it was, but it hurt. Bad. Spencer was awake and making coffee and breakfast. I could smell the bacon and the bitterness of coffee. Every breath I took was painful. I needed Spencer.

"Pretty boy," I croaked, unsure if he could hear me but attempting anyway. The smell of bacon in my nose was pleasant, but there were worse things at hand. "Pre-e-e-e-tty bo-o-y. Please."

I heard the timid footsteps padding around the kitchen, but they stopped to listen and quickly sped up as soon as my call for help was loud enough. So cute. Rushing to my rescue.

"You're awake," he spoke softly as he entered the room, creaking the door open and peeking inside. His hair was a big nest on his head and curling around his ears, but the one thing I couldn't take my eyes off of was his dark circles. His eyes were tired, overworked. I hadn't seen any case files around, and he certainly hadn't been showing signs of stressing out over any cases. "How's the headache?"

"It's bad, but I'll be okay. Are you—wait," I squinted at him through the pain. "I just woke up."

"Yes," he walked into the room and began straightening the covers around me.

"And you were in there..." I shook my head, grimacing. "How did you know I had a headache?"

"Well, since you asked." He crawled over me, nestling himself in the covers beside me and pressing a small kiss to the side of my head. "You've shown traces of minor-set Bruxism, the grinding and gnawing of teeth during the night, occasionally caused by mental stress. You usually only do it when you're having bad dreams, but once you get done with the bad parts you just start snoring again. Snoring can also cause headaches, but last night you didn't ever get out of the bad part."He hid his face in my neck, opening his fist and offering me some ibuprofen.

I took the pills with water from an old bottle on the night stand. "I didn't even know I had brux-whatever. I didn't have any nightmares last night, no bad dreams. In fact, I had some really good dreams."

Spencer's face felt hot against my neck, "I know."

"You _know_ ," I sighed, "Tell me what you _know_. Was I mumbling about how great our hypothetical dream date was? Did I give facial clues in my sleep to suggest that I was having a positive dream?"

"Actually, um..." Spencer exhaled with a breathy, nervous laugh. "I could tell it was good by the things you said and the way your body reacted when I tried to wake you up."

"What did I say?"

"Something about..." He lifted his head to look at me, his cheeks red and his eyes nervous. "I can't say it. Too bad."

I recognized his panicked face and the blush on his cheeks, "Was I...?" I gestured to the half of myself. He nodded sheepishly and apologized, mushing his face into my chest.

"I'm sorry, I was just reading and I looked over because you were grinding your teeth and mumbling to yourself and I thought to wake you up, but then I noticed... and you said..." He shook his head, "I didn't know what to do so I just got up and wandered around until morning and I made breakfast."

I frowned at how upset he seemed. He was trying to hide it, but Spencer wasn't very good at hiding his feelings. "Pretty boy?"

"Was it something I said last night?" He asked quietly, "Was it the mention of intimacy that triggered this, or did I make you uncomfortable by undressing in front of you?"

"Just because I get aroused during my sleep doesn't mean there's something wrong with either of us," I told him carefully, "It's a common thing. There's no need to worry."

"Are you sure?" He murmured, "I've never dreamt about that."

"What?" I narrowed my eyes, the headache slowly dissipating in light of this new idea. "Sex?"

"Yeah, no, I haven't really thought about it consciously, much less in dreams."

"Not even in high schoo—nevermind." Every time he was asked that question, he'd have a variation of explanation that he was still pretty much a child in high school. That worried me, though. He'd missed out on so many common human experiences that his personal, mental timeline was all messed up. Of course he couldn't understand intimacy except from his research.

"Derek?" He whispered. I blinked myself back into the present, "Is that a bad thing?"

"No, pretty boy. No, it's unusual, but it's certainly not bad."

He nodded slowly, lifting his hand to bite his right thumbnail. I watched him carefully.

"You nervous?"

"No, I'm not nervous." He shrugged, "Just a big confused. How is it that I'm alienated due to a lacking profile of intimacy with many partners? It seems like either way, I can't win."

My heart sunk. "You don't have to do anything just to get a reputation, Spencer. I promise."

"I know. You're one of the good ones," he smiled, brushing his hair behind his ear, flashing his eyes up to me. "I love you."

"I love you too, kid." I sunk under the covers, dragging Spencer with me. "I hope you like your coffee lukewarm. I want to sleep more."

Spencer made a face, "So you can think about me... _n-naked_?"

"Maybe so."


	20. Chapter 20

As soon as Clooney woke up, there was no keeping Spencer in any one place for long periods of time. He had studied enough about the way dogs react to various sounds and voices that he had somehow trained my dog to jump into his lap from the floor to the couch. Before Spencer, Clooney had never even considered jumping into anyone on a regular day, usually only when he was cooped up in a small cage for a few hours, but it would wear off eventually.

"Can you teach him how to speak too?" I mumbled, just a little jealous.

"Actually," Spencer gently patted Clooney's back to signal him to run back to his bed and grab a toy. I was amazed. "Several studies from universities from Hungary to North Carolina suggest that dogs have a left hemispheric bias for processing words with meaning, basically they understand and process the difference between positive and negative intonation."

I just stared at him, jealous, amazed, proud, and surprised that I'd wrangled such a beautiful and bright person. Sometimes it hit me like a truck.

"Um..." Spencer blushed and watched as Clooney padded back into the room with a stuffed animal from his toy basket. "Dogs can tell what we're saying due to how we say it. If you further studied that theory, you could find data that they could reverse the intonation and use it when talking to their owners." Clooney barked and Spencer took the toy from his mouth. "That was him using a positive tone of voice, like I would use to ask him to get his toy. He's asking me to play fetch."

I nodded, squinting now at the dog that I once thought I knew. Clooney ran up and licked his face. Spencer smiled and whistled, and a small furry blur jumped into my lap. I shook my head, "You're really a miracle, Spencer."

He grinned happily and squeaked the toy as Clooney clambered off my lap.

A few hours later we were in Chicago on another case. Dr. Reid and I were stuck in a room with piles and piles and piles of crime scene photos all from different years, trying to identify which ones fit our unsub's M.O. and it wasn't as easy as I thought it would be. Reid was efficient though. I'd vocalize what I'd found and he'd answer with where I went wrong from behind manilla folders.

"No," Reid said, not even looking up at me. I could only see the top of his head bobbing above the photos. "Look at the color and viscosity of the blood. Not an anemic victim, not our guy."

I nodded slowly. "Right. Of course."

"If you're uncomfortable with the photos, I can take over for you." Reid placed another photo into the Wrong-Guy pile. "It just takes a few seconds for each one. Go get some air."

"I'll gladly take a break," I stood and walked around the table to sit on the same bench. "But I don't want to leave you in this room by yourself."

"I'll be fine."

"You'll have nightmares," I told him. He sighed and pushed his glasses up onto his forehead, rubbing at his eyes. "I'll keep you company and watch in awe as you do your amazing thing."

He chuckled and placed his hand on my leg, "Sorry I've been antisocial. This is just a lot."

"I know. You're doing your job, and I'm slacking. Nothing changes," I rested my cheek on his shoulder as he took a deep breath.

"Want me to teach you how to tell the difference between anemic blood and iron deficient blood?" He offered, "It's pretty straight forward and I have an example that includes Paula Findlay. She's an athlete with anemia. Pretty harrowing story, actually."

I nodded and smiled, "Teach me."

It was only an hour-long story, but Reid worked more efficiently when he spoke. It gave him something to do, multitasking. That was the only way he could fully use his brain to its full potential, doing many things at once. Eventually, he had a 384-photo-high stack of Wrong-Guy photos, while only sixteen photos were with the M.O.

"Seems about right," he mumbled, "Only approximately twenty five percent of the global population have anemia."

"Of course."

Reid sighed and leaned back in his chair, wrapping his arm around me and running his fingers over my shoulder. I smiled. Even Dr. Reid had gotten used to me like this. "They're all out of the building, right?"

"Yeah," I said, looking up at him. "Why?"

"I haven't gotten to hold you all day," he murmured, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. "Missed it. Missed you."

I raised an eyebrow, "I've been right here."

"Not in the way I wanted." Reid shrugged, his FBI jacket falling off of one of his shoulders. "I really don't think I'm still comfortable with you and Garcia."

"Hm?" I frowned, "Pretty boy, there's nothing between us. You know this."

"Yeah, I know," he sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I know, I'm sorry."

I sat up and Reid nodded slowly, anticipating my words before I said them. "You don't need to be sorry."

"I knew what I signed up for," he murmured, "It just gets a bit confusing when the things you say to me bleed through to things I hear on phone calls to Garcia. Just an observation I can't help but miss."

"Reid-"

"I've also noticed that the names you use for people dictate what your intention is with them," his eyes didn't open once as he began his profile of me. "At home I'm Spencer, the pretty boy, vulnerable kid that makes breakfast and can control your dog whilst still arousing you even in REM sleep. Here, I'm Reid, your little brother, doctor-boy that wears sweater vests and uses statistics as a safe wall to keep bad people out. Reid puts too much sugar in his coffee and holds his mugs weird, and when Spencer tries to initiate embraces with you, your face crinkles up and you try to analyze why and how I'm holding you."

I opened my mouth, but he placed a hand over my mouth before I could speak. His eyes were still closed.

"Penelope is the woman who got shot on a date you were enthusiastic but hesitant to let her go on, that looks to you for safety, the one who lives a life outside, who you can never see without commenting on her smile, her new flower barrette, how amazing she is. Garcia is _baby girl_ , the woman you trust with your secrets, who you call on and who calls on you when crime scene photos are too much, and she's kept in her room alone looking forward to calls from you to keep her sane," Reid closed his dry mouth to swallow. "No matter how much I love that she makes you happy, I can't help but feel that if Reid didn't come home at 10 like he promised, you'd run to her and it would take an entire night of sleeping on her psychedelic couch that you'd realize maybe I'm not just taking too long in the office."

I stared at him for a long time before removing his arm from around my shoulders and walking out of the building.


	21. Chapter 21

I drove for hours. I went down the same street at least five times, just thinking. Thinking about what kind of mindset he had to be in to wreck me like that, to strip me bare and think that it was okay. It wasn't. I didn't understand how he could have so many borders and bad memories when he didn't even consider mine.

I found myself at the stoop of Garcia's hotel room. I felt guilty that Reid was right, and I especially felt bad that I'd left my phone on the table back in the work room where he was. But overall, Reid and Garcia were the two people I trusted with my feelings, and if Reid didn't understand that, it was tough.

I knocked twice, but she opened almost immediately after the first knock, my hand falling through the air and to my side. She was standing there with an eyebrow raised and empathy in her expression.

"He called," she said grimly, "Told me you'd come here."

"Well he seems to have me all figured out," I pushed past her and dropped my coat by the door, flopping onto the twin bed she hadn't laid in. "I walked out on him."

"I know," she shuffled over to the small counter by the microwave and grabbed a packet of coffee to pour into the filter. "I don't know what he did, but I hope it was a reasonable excuse. Or else."

"He just..." I groaned and kicked off my shoes. "He was profiling me like I was an unsub and it just really got under my skin. Like he thought I was gonna do something."

"Hurt him?" Garcia's eyes went wide and she glared at him.

"No! I mean, not in the physical way, but like... I don't know," I shook my head. I didn't stick around for long, so how would I know his intentions? I shoved my face into the bed. "Hell, I've made a mistake, haven't I?"

"Well, you can't go back yet, sweet cakes. I just made expensive hotel coffee for you." She waddled over and sat next to me, holding out the mug for me. "Tell me what the issue is. I am all ears."

I sighed and rolled onto my back, placing the warm mug in the middle of my chest. "He profiled me with all the calmness of a bonsai tree, and had the nerve to have his arm around me the whole time."

Garcia shook her head, "You're angry because he did his job while hugging you?"

"Oh, Garcia." I shook my head, "You're acting a lot more quirky than usual."

 _"Yeah. Coming." He slammed the book shut and gathered his bag in his arms. "Ready."_

 _"Are you okay, kid?" I brushed his hair from his face as he ducked his head down. "You're acting a lot more quirky than usual."_

I grimaced. Reid was right. I was recycling the things I'd said from Reid to Garcia. I closed my eyes. "Fuck."

"You never use the F-word." The peppy blonde beside me lost her pep, and the room felt cold suddenly. "What did you _do_?"

"I walked out on him while he was surrounded by work and there's no one there to make sure he's not..." I grabbed my shoes on the way out. "Thank you!"

"I didn't do anything, silly boy."

I drove as quickly as I could to where I had left him, but the room he used to be in was empty. He'd left my phone and the pile of M.O. photos where I could reach them with a note that read bring these to Hotch. He knew I'd come back, but where was he? I grabbed my phone and the photos and ran to the rental car. He couldn't have gotten far on foot. We were sharing a car, he had no means of transportation.

I checked all of the parks within a mile radius, all of the libraries, the public safe havens that he'd run to. It was interesting that he knew everything about me and where I went where I was weak, but it seemed as though I was looking in all the wrong places.

Finally, I remembered the one place I wasn't looking. Our hotel room. Of course.

By the time I got there, he was asleep on the chair in the corner, sitting up with his legs folded and his head laid back. Just like he was in the workroom. He had a book in his lap and his glasses were in his hands. Like he couldn't focus.

I considered picking him up and carrying him to the bed, but I couldn't tell which man was sitting in the chair. Spencer or Dr. Reid.

In the morning, I woke up in the bed alone. I looked over to the chair where his eyes were still closed, but he definitely wasn't sleeping. I didn't know if I should say the first thing but he beat me to the punch.

"I'm sorry," he murmured, his voice croaky and exhausted. "I wasn't thinking."

I stayed silent unsure if he was going to continue. He didn't, but I knew there wasn't much else to say. I just kept myself propped up on my elbow, watching as he squirmed under my gaze.

"I said I'm sorry," he murmured, his eyes fluttering open to look at me. He looked more tired than usual. "I wasn't thinking clearly. Too many gruesome images and then too much comfort on my part led to an unnecessary profile on you that everyone could have gone without."

I shook my head, "I left you alone, though. That was my bad, Reid."

"Spencer, now. I think," he closed his eyes again, "I don't think Reid would admit to being wrong."

I chuckled under my breath and watched as he grimaced. "Headache?"

"Not bruxism, if that's what you're thinking. I think my upright position was the most part, coupled with a lack of REM sleep and some obnoxious snoring," he threw a tired but playful glance my way. "I mentioned that snoring is a symptom of bruxism, right?"

"I believe you did," I smiled.

He shook his head, "Sorry I called Garcia. I thought you'd went there, but she told me you hadn't been there."

I nodded slowly. He wasn't looking for facial cues that I was lying, just looking for forgiveness. "It's okay, Spencer. I love you. Missed you last night."

"Love you too," he murmured, slowly standing and walking over to the bed. He collapsed on top of me, "I missed you too. I didn't know if I was welcome."

"You're always welcome."


	22. Chapter 22

We were upcoming on a week in Michigan. Our killer had relocated after realizing we were onto him, but he hadn't cared enough to change his M.O. because the local law enforcement noticed the pattern of anemic men and women going missing, they called us in immediately.

Reid was getting tired. Really tired. He hadn't slept in awhile, even though there weren't any children that had been killed. He was just upset. He couldn't find any connection between Michigan and Chicago. He thought at first that maybe he had family in both places, after all our unsub was showing various signs of abandonment which could have meant a separated family. But after calling Garcia, his family had been separated, but they all lived closer to Washington. There were no ex-partners in neither Chicago nor Michigan.

He was beginning to lose hope. He began reading more and more books that began to deviate into supremely unrelated topics; he went from anemia to inch worms in a few hours, flipping through pages with his tongue held between his teeth and his feet folded over themselves, almost to keep himself from jumping out of it.

I tried my best to stay awake to keep him company. I knew he couldn't do this by himself, but the next thing I knew I was opening my eyes as he opened the curtains, the same clothes from the night before wrinkled on his body. I sighed, "Pretty boy-"

"We need to get to the freshest crime scene as soon as possible. A death was just called in," he said, walking over and grabbing my hand, tugging me to sit up. "With or without you, I need to be there right now. I think I have an idea."

He slung his messenger bag over his shoulder and ran out the door as soon as I could blink. I sighed and called Hotch to tell him our bloodhound had a scent.

When the rest of the team got there, Reid had hung his jacket and sweater vest on one of the pickets of the fence, his shirt sleeves rolled up and plastic gloves on his hands as he rooted around in the dirt where the body had been called in. A group of police officers were gathered around a man whose face was stricken with grief, waving his hands around and sobbing as he told the story of how he found his friend dead in the dirt where they had been planting.

I walked over to Reid, who noticed as my shadow covered him and began to speak, "There's something that isn't right. Something... something I'm missing." He sat back on his heels for a moment before staggering to his feet and jogging over to the witness.

"Mr. Finnegan," he said, his hands hanging in front of his stomach, ready to gesture as needed. "You said you went inside for a moment and you came back out to find your friend dead. Is this right?"

He nodded slowly, stuttering, "I went inside to wash my hands, and I heard him scream and I ran to check on him."

"You ran to check on him," Reid repeated, thinking for a moment. "And you'd been working in the dirt for a long time, yes?"

The man shook his head, "Yeah, it had been about an hour."

"An hour." Reid stared at him for a long time before running into the house. I followed him, interested in where he was going. He ran to the bathroom that was closest to the door, and gestured me inside.

"What is it, Reid?"

"Look," he grabbed the back of my neck and angled me to look in the sink. "Look at the dirt ring around the sink."

I squinted, "There is none."

"Exactly. And I'm willing to bet that if you took a sample of the water that has run through the pipe in the past twenty four hours, there'd be no traces of the dirt there either. The red tint around the drain, there, is blood."

I didn't entirely understand what that meant. I just looked at him, moving my eyebrows once in awhile, until he sighed and continued.

"What's the importance of washing his hands?" He asked me, pushing me out of the bathroom and pointed to the hallway. "There was dirt on his shoes, but not on his hands. He hadn't been helping the victim. Either he'd paid the man, or he was keeping him hostage. We've swept the house, no weapons that could keep the man from running, and there were no ligature marks. We know for sure they weren't friends like Finnegan said."

"And... if he hired him," I slowly caught on, "He'd know things about him."

"Yes!" Reid exclaimed, his eyes brighter than I'd seen them all week. "Like work ethic, whether or not he was an independent worker, and if he could get a conversation going, he could find out the personal aspects of his life and health."

"Like his blood type."

He nodded excitedly, practically jumping off the walls. "Why would he wash his hands if he was going back out to help, anyway? Especially if there was nothing to wash off his hands."

He pulled his phone from his pocket, "Garcia! Quick check. Look up any and all links between animal blood and fertilizer."

 _"There's a fertilizer called blood meal, but it's definitely not the kind of thing you want on your table. Made of animal blood, and can be found_ in _any Home Depot, Lowe's, or any store that_ middle aged _dads go to to get their kicks."_

"Blood is high in nitrogen," Reid nodded. "Of course. Anemia makes the blood thin, easy to soak into the soil, won't clump and ruin any machinery."

 _"Ew. W-why would he use human blood if there was bagged stuff down the street?"_

"The person who taught him how to farm when he was little, died on the field. I should have known. He kills anemic people because his family member was. Their crops most likely flourished that year. Thanks."

I watched as he ran back outside and yelled to the officers to grab the man's arms. Finnegan didn't fight, but he still tried to hold onto his look of innocence. "What are you doing?"

"The footprints in the hallway to the bathroom," Reid said, shoving his hands in his pockets as he watched Finnegan get cuffed. "They weren't rushed. You let him work for an hour, killed him for the blood, then walked in to wash your hands. Not the other way around."

The man's shoulders dropped and he sighed, "He died for a purpose."

"Not the right one," I stepped in, taking over for the officers and clipping the handcuffs around his wrists. "You don't get to decide who lives or dies."

"Neither did God, but he still killed my father." He broke free and lunged at Reid, and I went to save him, but as soon as he broke free, Reid's hand was swinging. Finnegan hit the ground, and before I knew it, Reid was walking the other way to the car, flinging his gloves to the sides. Most likely ready to get some well-earned sleep.


	23. Chapter 23

"Hey, mom..." Spencer laid on my chest, twirling the string of my sweatpants around his finger. "I know it's nap time right now, but I just wanted to let you know that I'm okay. You sent Derek back at the right time, and I never got to thank you. Been really busy. I miss you, and as soon as I'm in the area I'll be over with flowers."

I kissed his head. We were given the day off, the team that had been cooped up away from home anyway. The rest of the team at the building, the analysts, technicians, and a few trainees, were focusing more on local cases that wouldn't last more than twelve hours. Spencer took the time to catch up on things he missed. He ate all of his meals, drank water, changed his clothes, was planning on taking a shower. After his call with his mother, he retreated from my arms and headed toward the bathroom. I offered to join him but he hadn't answered. And locked the door behind him.

"Hey," I mumbled, pushing myself up onto my elbows as he emerged, a towel around his waist, around his shoulders, and one in his hands to dry his hair.

"Do you remember the case with... uh, the Fisher King?" He said, slowing his movements with the towel as he looked at me. "Randall Garner... The unsub that knew my mother?"

"Yeah... I was one of the ones who took her back to Virginia," I sat up all the way. "Why?"

"I remember telling Garcia that uh... people told me secrets because they knew I didn't have anyone to betray them to."

I frowned, "Pretty boy, you never told me that."

"I couldn't," he smiled and began folding the towel he had been drying his hair with. "You had plenty of people."

I kept silent for a long time, waiting for him to say that he didn't mean it like that. I could tell in his eyes he was in a place between Reid and Spencer. He'd been thinking about cases in the shower, trying to think of any way around the case that he could have taken. I sighed as he seemed to be done.

"I wouldn't have told anyone."

He shrugged, his lips pressing together into an awkward smile. "Gideon was there. You would have told him."

"He was like your dad," I mumbled, "I would have had to tell him."

He smiled again, his teeth showing just a little bit. "I know. Do you mind?" He gestured to the towel, "I could change in the bathroom if you want. Or the guest room."

I shook my head, "I don't mind. You're beautiful."

Spencer blushed, "Y'know... you could help? For, um... intimacy's sake?"

"Kid, you wouldn't let me in the shower," I stood carefully, looking for some sign of distress. But it was all him. All Spencer. "What were you thinking about in there?"

"I have someone to betray people to now," he whispered, tucking his hair behind his ear. "You. Plus, I didn't not let you in the shower with me. Just kind of figured you'd wander in after me."

I raised my eyebrow as he took a step forward. I felt uncomfortable. Not that I didn't want to take care of him, but it just didn't feel like him. It felt like he was trying to be someone else.

"Spencer, what's wrong?" I asked, inspecting his face. I cupped my hand around his jaw, and his eyes slipped closed. He sighed. "What aren't you telling me?"

"I don't understand," he looked back up at me with a defeated expression, and I could tell it was definitely him. "How do I make us stronger without doing this? Don't we have to do stuff at some point? That's a usual thing. You get passive before you have a sexual need and angry while you're in one. That's not a profile by the way, that's just an observation as your boyfriend."

I backed up for a moment. "My boyfriend?"

"Well, yeah. Right? That's what... what we are?" His hands fidgeted in front of him and he looked away.

"You've never called yourself my boyfriend. I usually call you that."

"I don't know," his gaze moved to his feet and I moved back where I was, close to him, close enough to catch him if he started falling. Not that he was having a stroke, but all of these strange things coming out of Spencer's mouth were making me consider calling an ambulance. "I just like you a lot and I thought I'd try new things. Isn't that a good development? Especially in my character. Makes me more human and stuff."

I shook my head, "I fell in love with you because you're as alien as they come."

Spencer grinned, but it quickly changed. "So you... don't wanna..."

"Well, I do. I just want to make sure you're not looking for intimacy for a reputation," I watched as his face changed. "See, that. That face of panic gives me hope."

He stepped forward and snaked his arms around my waist, "I love you."

"I love you too, pretty boy. Let's get you in some clothes."


	24. Chapter 24

The rude awakening that the rest of the world existed came at five o'clock in the morning.

I was playing with Spencer's hair. The room was dark, save for the slivers of light from the light posts outside that soaked through the blinds. He'd had a few nightmares, and I found that the closer I held him to me, the less he'd react to whatever threats were tumbling around in his brain. He woke me up about 4:30 with his mumbling, and I figured I may as well just stay up.

"Derek, my love!" The call came first, then the confident padding of flat-level shoes on the wooden entryway, then the slam of the door that almost woke Spencer up, but somehow didn't. He was so tired, once he got to sleep, I was sure he wouldn't wake up for awhile.

I slowly crawled out from the bed and glanced outside of the room, trying to figure out if I should grab the gun in my drawer, but as soon as I saw the flash of red hair, I exhaled.

"Mom," I whispered, gently walking out and closing the door. "What are you doing here?"

I'd mentioned to Spencer that my mother came over occasionally without warning. He wasn't the kind of person to be mean to anyone, especially not my mother. I was sure of that. However, he wasn't a fan of being woken up early. I wasn't sure if I was supposed to wake him up to meet my mother. I wasn't sure what the process was of announcing my first and only boyfriend that was sleeping in my bed.

"Oh," she looked over me and held her arms out carefully for a hug, "I didn't know you'd be here."

"It's my house, mom." I gave her a careful hug, scanning around for anything suspicious. I didn't understand the significance of five in the morning for her to come into our home. I couldn't send her back, though. Her house was a long way away. "Why wouldn't I be here?"

"I thought you were in Michigan..." She looked around at the dark apartment, "I thought I'd come and keep Clooney company and, uh... clean up a bit."

I took a deep breath, but I smiled anyway. "Well, I missed you."

"I missed you too," she clasped her hands together and smiled. "Now. Where is my favorite puppy?"

She started off toward the bedroom, and I almost didn't stop her. Whatever would come of her opening that door would be unstoppable, and maybe for the best. But the better side of me stopped her and gave her a look.

"Is there a..." She looked to the door and back to me. "...woman? In there?"

"Oh, no... no, not a... not a woman."

"Oh." She nodded and reached for the door handle, thinking I meant Clooney, I supposed. I sighed and put my hand on her shoulder. My mom turned and looked at me with a face full of confusion, and after awhile, she realized. "Wait..."

"I don't think it would be smart for me to wake him up, but if you have doubts about how great this person is for me..." I gently moved her away from the door, "I can."

"If you wouldn't mind?" She gave me an uncomfortable, but willing smile. "I'd like to meet... him."

I crept inside the room, leaving the door cracked but not enough for my mother to get any first impressions from my sleeping boyfriend that would most definitely hit me once I tried to wake him up. I walked around the bed and shook his shoulder as gently as I could.

"Spencer," I whispered, watching as his eyes moved beneath his eye lids. "You've got to get up."

"Do we have a case?" He murmured groggily, opening an eye.

"Oh!" My mother exclaimed from behind the door. "Is that his little voice?"

Both of Spencer's eyes opened and he looked at me in a panic, immediately assuming that there was possibly a serial killer in our room giving me demands. I shook my head and kissed his cheek.

"My mother..." I gave him a sympathetic smile and took his hand, slowly leading him out of the bed. "I'm sorry, I didn't know she was coming."

"It's fine," he yawned and stumbled to his feet. "Better now than ever. Maybe I can tell her all about you and your feelings and we can be even."

I walked first, letting Spencer cling to the back of my shirt in his tired haze. "Mom, this is Spencer."

As soon as he came into view, my mother's eyes lit up and she jumped to hug him. Spencer's hazel eyes shifted to me, unsure as to what to do. I gave him the gesture to tell him to "hug back," and he gave his best performance as a person who did this on a daily basis. My mother would have held on forever, but she had to lean back to look at him.

Admittedly, Spencer was at his most beautiful before he looked in the mirror. He stood, slouching in his pajamas with his hair wavy on his forehead and around his ears, his hands awkwardly hanging at his sides, and his eyes. His eyes were the size of dinner plates as they watched Mom as she watched him.

"You are a vision!" She told him, "How did he... How did you two meet?"

"Spencer works at the BAU with me, Mom." I answered for him, knowing that Spencer was too frozen to speak at the moment. He'd been forced to wake up, hug a stranger, and explain how he and I met within ten minutes.

"Oh, for how long?" She squinted at him, "You're so young..."

"I'm actually older than thirty," he mumbled, looking to me and smiling shyly. "We've worked together for about ten years now."

Mom looked to me, "Wow."

"Wow?"

"And you've met Clooney?" She asked, looking to Spencer. He nodded, smiling wider. "Ah. That's so lovely."

We all stood in front of the door for a long time before Spencer backed into the room and emerged with a sleeping Clooney in his arms. "I figure you came here to see this one."

My mom stared at the sleeping dog in his arms for a long, long time and then turned to me. "Clooney hates new people."

Spencer turned to me and gave a confused glare, "You told me he loves everyone, Derek..."

"Oh, honey," Mom took the sleeping dog in her arms and shook her head, "He says that to everyone. He doesn't want them to be scared of him. If he likes you, he's a real sweetheart."

"That's interesting," Spencer looked to me with his angry eyes but I just shrugged. "I figured as much. I just wore Derek's clothes around for awhile until he warmed up to me."

"Eh," Mom smiled at him. "I think it's that face and voice of yours. Very familiar. I feel like I've seen you around before."

"He's in the team pictures we take, Mom. You have seen him before."

Mom gasped and placed Clooney on the couch and dug into her purse, pulling out her wallet. She opened it and pulled out the small three-by-four inch pictures I had mailed her over the years and pointed to Spencer in the most recent one, "You?"

"Yes, ma'am..." He squinted at the picture, "I lost that vest somewhere."

"It looks dashing on you," she commented. "You'd better find it."

"I'm sure the furball dragged it somewhere..." I didn't know how I felt about Spencer and my mother getting along so quickly. I thought it'd take him longer than a minute or two. Maybe he'd adapted to the Morgan family already. That wouldn't be surprising, actually. If he knew how to get dogs to like him, there was a big chance he could have studied how to get humans to appreciate him and, on a good day, the other way around.

"So, um... Mom," I scratched the back of my head. "Were you planning on staying over, or?"

"Oh, no. No, no." She smiled at me and then turned to Spencer, "I'll admit, I had my doubts about you, so I came down here. You weren't calling as often, but now I realize that it was for a good cause."

Spencer raised an eyebrow at me, "You haven't called your mom? In how long?"

"About a month and a half."

"So when we started dating," I clarified, and Mom's eyes brightened. "But I'll make a point to call you more than I do now."

She nodded slowly. "I'll get a hotel somewhere. Or... Where does that Garcia girl live again?"

Spencer noticably frowned and ducked his head down, focusing a lot harder on petting Clooney. I shrugged, "I think a hotel would be a better choice, here. I love you."

"Love you too, Der. See you soon, Spencer. It was so lovely meeting you."


	25. Chapter 25

"I know you're angry," I followed Dr. Reid around the bullpen with coffees. "I didn't know she was coming over either, or I would have told you. But you liked her, right?"

"Morgan," he turned on his heel, his arms overflowing with work that wasn't his responsibility to do, "I'm not mad about your mom. She's a lovely woman, as impromptu as she may be."

"Okay?" I shifted on my feet. Garcia's eyes were burning dots into my forehead, I could feel them.

"I'm angry that you lied, believe it or not," he raised his eyebrows, his glasses slowly inching down the crest of his nose. I looked down to my feet as if I was being scolded by a professor. "Even if it was something as petty as whether or not a dog would like me, it's still a red flag. Compulsive liars start out with small lies like that, you know this."

"I'm not a compulsive liar, Reid. I just really wanted you and Clooney to get along." I took some of the files from his arms, trading him with a coffee. He smiled thinly, but gratefully.

"And what if we hadn't, love." Reid murmured the last word under his breath, feeling that it was important in the sentence, but was terrified of others hearing. "I wouldn't be shattered or anything, but you understand how it could be somewhat devastating for your dog to supposedly love every other human on this earth except for me?"

I silently nodded, looking over the face I hadn't seen in the light for a long, long time without anger, sadness, or just blankness boiling in those eyes. They were beautiful when they weren't under stress.

"I was lucky, I ran the numbers and used science to worm my way into Clooney's heart. Because if I hadn't, there'd be tension. Much more tension." Reid gave me a look that made Garcia's angry eyes look like a simple match. "I can train him to resent you, Morgan. Please don't make me do that because it's terribly hard to reverse."

Then he walked away. I knew he was kidding. He only did irreversible things to people he had no personal responsibility with. Like me, a few months ago. But now I was his, so he wouldn't do that. I thought.

"Batcave," Garcia said stiffly, "Now."

I hung my head and slowly wandered over toward the venomous blonde that lurked, waiting for me. Prentiss nudged Reid and he turned, smirking at me. I hated how attractive he looked. Damn those pants. Way tighter than any of his other pants. But of course, he knew that. He turned his back to me and continued to talk to Prentiss about her performance on the field.

"Before you open your lovely, hot pink mouth, please let me answer the question you're about to ask," I said, slumping into the chair near her desk, "I may have lied to Spencer about Clooney's love of people, but we're all good now. I mean, kind of. He's still a little mad, but he's wearing the pants he knows drive me crazy, and he only does that when he wants to forgive me and he just wants to see me squirm for a little bit, but when we go home it'll all be happiness, hugs, and Battlestar Galactica."

Garcia took a deep breath through her nose and shook her head, "I'm glad that you just finished up half of this conversation, but this next talking point is going to take up some leg room."

I squinted at her, "What do you mean?"

"Our darling crème puff has come to me with some concerns about you and me," she said slowly, gauging my reaction.

I sighed, "Penelope, don't-"

"I know that you're thinking that this isn't fair, that he shouldn't have a say in this, he doesn't understand us, etc."

"Well, yeah..." My legs swiveled me around in the chair. "How did you know?"

"Because those are the exact words Boy Wonder mentioned to me this morning," she gave me a sympathetic look, "Believe me when I say, there is nothing worse than hearing him say those words. He doesn't think we're doing anything, my dear. I mean, why would you, when you have that beautiful sapling in your midst."

"Then what's the problem?"

"The problem is, my love, that you didn't tell him where you went that night you got mad at him." Garcia shook her head, "So you're two for two on major lies to your— _our_ baby. I was willing to lie to him for his sake, because I know he's in a forgiving stage right now for something small."

"Why does it matter if I went to your house, Garcia? I mean, we didn't do anything. I was there for all of five minutes-"

"Directly after your boy profiled the bananas out of you and told you that if he were missing, possibly _dead_ , you would come to me to cry about it. And, in a way, you kind of proved how right he was," she took her cookie jar and set it front of me. "If Clooney didn't crush him, this will. And when he gets mad, you can't come to me. You're going to have to face an angry Spencer, something you haven't experienced before. Dr. Reid, the one in there with the tight pants and mischievous plans? He's being nice, professional. Spencer is just a Lil' Ball of Emotion, and if you throw him down, he'll bounce right back."

I scrubbed my hands over my face, "Okay. Okay, fine. When do I tell him, how do I tell him?"

"When he asks, tell him the truth."

"What if he doesn't ask?"

"He will," she said without even thinking. "If he asked about Ms. Reid and he found out about Clooney, believe me. He will ask."


	26. Chapter 26

Reid had left a few hours earlier than me from work, somehow finishing his own work with some of mine before I finished the three case files on my desk. He was maddening sometimes. I hung my bag next to his and looked around the dim apartment, searching for the man I needed to make something up to. Somehow.

I wandered through the apartment, looked in every room until I came to the end of the hallway and saw the flickering of a light under the bedroom door. I sighed. He was reading, most likely. The chances of him waiting naked on the bed for me were slim. I grasped the door handle and began to turn it when the barking came from the other side.

"Down, Clooney," I heard Spencer murmur, the gentle padding of feet on the carpet and the jingling of a collar. I tried to put on my best game face before the door opened, but I couldn't hold it for long when he came into view in his disheveled state, still in his work clothes, but his tie loose around his neck and his glasses—damn those glasses. "Hi."

"Are you still mad?" I wondered out loud, rubbing the back of my neck. I was just glad that my Spencer was back, but I didn't know for how long.

"Not now," he said slowly, "But I have a feeling I will be in a little bit."

I gave him a sad smile and looked down to Clooney, whose lip was turned up in a growl at me. I frowned in Spencer's direction. He just shrugged.

"I didn't do the irreversible version," he offered, following me to the bed as I flopped onto the mattress. "It'll just take you some time and a lot of wearing my clothes for him to trust you again. Much like me."

My head revolved on my neck and I gave him a helpless look, "I really don't know how to do this?"

"This?" Spencer asked. He looked at me for a long time, "… you don't know how to be in a relationship."

"Not like this..." I quickly scrambled to an upright position as his face fell, "No, no. I'm not... I'm not breaking up with you, I just need... I need you to tell me how to do this. I don't know what makes you feel better as opposed to worse."

"You can start by telling me what's making the back of your neck so itchy," he mumbled with a half-smile on his face, taking my wrist in his hand and dragging it away from behind my head.

"I need you to stay... when I say it," I turned my wrist over in his hand and gently grasped onto his palm. "I don't want you to get mad, and you have every right to, obviously, but get mad at me and stay here and talk me through it and try your best not to punch me, but I'd let you if you wanted to."

Spencer's hand fidgeted under mine until he finally held on, "If you're telling me about it, there's room for forgiveness."

I nodded slowly, "Well, um... I don't want to mess this up, and I'm worried that if I say it wrong you'll get really upset."

"Do you want me to guess?" He offered, raising his eyebrows. I shrugged and nodded, might as well let him try. "I think that you're hung up on the night in Chicago where I kind of skinned you bare. When you left, you went to Garcia's and you spoke to her, you realized that what I said was right, and she told you I called so you came back."

I opened my mouth to speak, but just let out a long exhale and laid back down on my back, keeping Spencer's hand in mine.

"I'm not mad. I was in Chicago, but more at myself than anything," Spencer settled himself beside me on his side. "I'm upset, understandably. But I can get over it."

"I don't want you to get over it," I murmured, "I want you to tell me what I should have done instead."

"You should have mentioned the rule against inter-team profiling, most likely. Snap me out of my work self before I try to focus on the relationship at hand," he sighed and rested his forehead against my neck, "I'm not good at this either, Derek."

"Let's be bad together, then." I glanced down at Clooney. He was still quietly baring his teeth at me. I sighed. "You can't make him like me again?"

" _You_ can. By wearing _my_ clothes, just like I had to in order to gain your dog's trust," Spencer smiled and pointed to the closet. "Start there. We can spend the night at my house if you'd like it to go faster. Then everyone will smell Spencer-y and it'll be fine."

"Good plan," I mumbled. "I like you wearing my clothes much more than the other way around."

"Think about that next time you lie, okay?" Spencer kissed my cheek before whispering in my ear, "I can make it so, _so_ much worse." He leaned back and grinned, "Love you."

I groaned, "You're so mean."


	27. Chapter 27

Spencer's apartment was as disorganized but homely as its owner was. Bookcases were so prevalent in the small, Virginia apartment that they could be considered the walls, and the books themselves could be considered carpeting. The room smelled of old coffee, most likely from the rings of it, dried along the bottoms of mugs that were scattered around the main room. Spencer wasn't at all embarrassed, either. He just gestured with a limp arm to one of his old chairs for our belongings. I looked down to Clooney's crate, but he was just excited to smell so much Spencer in one place. I sighed and set his crate on the ground.

"I have a small air mattress that I think Clooney would like," Spencer said, picking up a book to place on his shelf before looking up to me. "Oh... I should have cleaned up, shouldn't I?"

I noticed his awkward look and I shook my head, "No, pretty boy. It's fine, it's very you."

I bent down to undo the latch but Spencer hurriedly slid across the wooden floor in his mismatched socks to move my hands away. "Wait, can you let him loose in the guest room?"

My eyebrows raised unintentionally as he lifted the handle of the crate and held it near his chest. "What's wrong?"

"I had an idea for tonight, but it would constitute a lack of dogs running around and jumping on our laps," Spencer mumbled, his eyes casting downward before moving back up to me in a panic. "That sounded a lot worse than I meant it to..."

He ran his fingers through his hair, obviously distressed by the many different things he could have said instead, the many ways I could have interpreted it, the many ways he wished he could rebegin his introduction to his apartment. He was nervous of course, our first sleepover at his house, our first sleepover-date at his house with Clooney. I didn't know how to comfort him, but I I knew something I could do. I placed my hands on his hips. I'd never done that to a man before. It was strange but good strange. My fingers rested on his back, and I could feel the peaks of his hipbones on my thumbs. I tapped my fingers on the small of his back. Just feeling.

Spencer's mouth was dry as he looked up at me with his puppy eyes, "Derek..."

I cleared my throat and let him go, but he gave a sad sigh and let his eyelids flutter shut like unwilling blinds. "I'll put Clooney in the guest room."

"Down the hall, second door on the right," Spencer whispered airily, slowly handing me Clooney's crate.

I rushed down the hall, enough to be quick but also making sure I didn't jostle Clooney. I didn't know what was going to happen, but I had this feeling in the middle of my chest. A fluttery fast-heartbeat feeling. Like I was a high schooler in my bedroom and I was sitting, watching a movie with my crush. I let him loose, set out some food and water, laid down his blanket and gave him a quick pet behind the ears. Maybe I was making something out of nothing, but it was very rare that I saw Spencer look up at me like that. The first time we kissed was the first time. This was the second time. What was his plan?

When I came back into the room, both of his top layers were gone. He stood with his hands hanging by his sides in only a dress shirt, pants, and tie and I looked at him for a long, long time. And he looked back.

"Derek..." He murmured, his hands somehow still by his sides. "I don't know what I want right now, but I really want to be close to you. And I definitely want to kiss you because we haven't done that in awhile and it makes things quiet when I'm overwhelmed and it makes me feel..." He searched for a scientific word to use, but he wouldn't find one. The feeling both of us were overcome with was way beyond any science he could pull out of his sleeve.

"Fluttery?" I smiled at him as his eyes stopped wandering and met mine. "Me too."

I stayed where I was in the doorway. I wasn't sure that this was genuine yet. His hands were definitely not moving as much as I thought they'd be moving. He wasn't nervous, but he wasn't confident either. He was fluttery. But did he mean that he wanted this? If he did, I'd let him walk to me. Let him initiate the first contact.

And so he did. Slowly, glancing at me to make sure it was okay, but I just smiled at him. I didn't want to tell him what to do.

"Derek, He spoke quietly as he reached me, his feet stepping on top of mine to wrap his arms around my neck, the first time he'd ever done that. "I may not have the best track record with understanding how dates go, but I think I want to try something, but I'm not sure I'm ready to let it go so far as-"

"I wouldn't let it go too far," I promised him. I rested my head against him and let my hands gravitate toward him again, to his hips where I just held him. And he held me. Just looking. "Are you sure?"

"I'm sure that I love you," he said slowly. "and I'm sure that this feels nice. And I'm sure that intimacy..."

I shook my head and kissed him, just a small kiss on his lips first, then his nose. And he wrinkled his face up and a laugh fell out of his lips, such a happy laugh. Like the sunshine. I swayed him back and forth and he just held on, kept smiling, kept looking at me like I was his world, which felt amazing because he was certainly mine.

"Do you want to sit down, pretty boy?" I whispered to him, quiet as I could possibly be with my heart leaping out of my chest. "I could carry you to the couch, or-"

"Can we stay like this?" He murmured, closing his eyes and pressing his forehead against mine just a little harder. "Just a little longer, and then you can carry me over. But I... I like this. Like you."

"Okay," I nodded slowly and felt my stomach flip as he kissed me again, light and careful, but passionate. Just like him.


	28. Chapter 28

We were getting better. Better at communicating, better at intimacy, and definitely better at living amongst each other without creating conflict. That was our main issue in the first place, and we overcame it. Over a long time of finding out what didn't end well. Spencer kept reminding me that Thomas Edison didn't fail a thousand times, but instead found a thousand ways that wouldn't work.

The both of us slipped into a rhythm. We'd wake up at the same time, make coffee, eat breakfast, walk Clooney if time allowed, go to work. We'd sit at our desks and work there until a case turned up. Our night routine was mostly physical hygiene, but before we went to bed we'd tell each other five things that we noticed during the day. Over time, we got good at it; profiling the world around us without using it as a weapon. Spencer would tell me that he read a new book about something he never knew before and that it helped him notice more about the personalities of the flowers in the garden box across the way from our bedroom window. Mine would usually be a detailed account about him. Like... I'd say, "Today, I noticed that you always stir your coffee twenty-five times to the right, no matter how much sugar you put into your mug."

Spencer even went to therapy after a particularly bad case, a profession he'd railed on in the past for his own personal opinion. The case was in Vegas, which already rattled him to the core. But the unsub was a thirteen-year-old girl, a sister who had been poisoning the younger children in the neighborhood in order to get them to stay home from school. We didn't know it at the time, but her stressor was that some children at her younger brother's school were bullying him, but he wouldn't tell anyone who it was. Of course, the sister's mother had been bipolar, and the father had left early in their lives, so her first idea was a worrying one; to sicken every kid that could possibly be hurting her brother.

We caught her. Correction; Reid caught her. He had seen her babysitting flyers up and noticed (as he told me that night) how her writing was reminiscent of the writings of Manson in his nightly journals. Such things couldn't just be coincidental. We raided the house and caught her attempting to poison her own brother's food after she'd gotten everyone else and ran out of victims. Reid had talked to the girl, rather brilliantly as he always did, and I picked up the little brother and took him outside. Hotch threw a party in the BAU round table room and I'd never seen Spencer's face so red.

We were in that stage of happiness, between getting comfortable and getting ready for the rest of our lives. And I'll admit, it was daunting to think about that. We were closer to the future than we were the past. I was excited, though, and Spencer was completely oblivious to it all. Which made the whole thing sweeter.

I made it special, I promise. I took him to a library and let him browse for several hours, dozing on the stiff couch near the computer station as he read beside me, his head resting on my shoulder and his legs tangled with mine. From there, we stopped into some museums in the downtown area. I grabbed one of the handheld walkie-talkie things, but I quickly realized that Spencer could tell me everything I needed to know about everything in the building down to the cracked tile in the corner of the main room. And he did.

I called the team to meet us on the roof of the BAU building at five, the place I met him for the first time, and they were all eager to join in on the little ceremony. I didn't bother with a box. Garcia offered to cater the event, and I was glad to let her do that. Anything to make her even more excited was fine by me. I made sure that everyone was in their places before I brought him by the hand up through the stairwell. He just followed me with his bag of books in one hand and his other in mine, babbling about how the Renaissance may or may not have happened due to its varying time periods and theories. When I opened the hatch to the roof and he saw the group, he just smiled. I thought he was onto us, but then he ran over to show everyone his books and I knew he was just excited to see everyone in an atmosphere that didn't overwhelm him.

"Pretty boy," I said quietly. He turned, his finger in the middle of the page, and looked at me with smiling eyes. "Why don't you put that book down and come over here?"

His smile faded ever so slightly. He closed the book and held it to his chest before hesitantly padding over to me. I just smiled and took his hand while stuffing my other hand in my front pocket. I knew he'd never let a new book go.

"Flip to page 239," I mumbled. He glanced up at me before hurriedly skimming through the pages. He quickly stopped, looking up at me as he saw the paper I'd hidden inside.

"I've been holding onto this all day," Spencer said quietly, "How did you..."

"Magic," I shrugged my shoulders and gestured to the book. "Read it."

He did. It only took him a few seconds, but he kept his head down for a long time. His shoulder moved up and down and I realized he was crying. I took him into my arms and gave a panicked look to the team, but they all just smiled. Of course, they expected this.

"Yeah," he mumbled into my chest, his arms wrapped around my chest. "Yeah, I wanna marry you."

 _The End._


End file.
